All over Ireland, from Cork to Belfast, from Dublin to Galway, are scattered the ruins of churches, abbeys, and ecclesiastical buildings, the relics of a country once rich, prosperous and populous. These ruins raise their castellated walls and towers, noble even in decay, sometimes in the midst of a village, crowded with the miserably poor, sometimes on a mountain, in every direction commanding magnificent prospects; sometimes on an island in one of the lakes, which, like emeralds in a setting of deeper green, gem the surface of the rural landscape and contribute to increase the beauty of scenery not surpassed in the world.
Ages ago the voice of prayer and the song of praise ceased to ascend from these sacred edifices, and they are now visited only by strangers, guides, and parties of humble peasants, the foremost bearing on their shoulders the remains of a companion to be laid within the hallowed enclosure, for although the church is in ruins, the ground in and about it is still holy and in service when pious hands lay away in the bosom of earth the bodies of those who have borne the last burden, shed the last tear, and succumbed to the last enemy. But among all the pitiable spectacles presented in this unhappy[pg 037]
[pg 039]country, none is better calculated to inspire sad reflections than a rural graveyard. The walls of the ruined church tower on high, with massive cornice and pointed window; within stand monuments and tombs of the Irish great; kings, princes, and archbishops lie together, while about the hallowed edifice are huddled the graves of the poor; here, sinking so as to be indistinguishable from the sod; there, rising in new-made proportions; yonder, marked with a wooden cross, or a round stick, the branch of a tree rudely trimmed, but significant as the only token bitter poverty could furnish of undying love; while over all the graves, alike of the high born and of the lowly, the weeds and nettles grow.
"Sure there's no saxton, Sorr," said car-man Jerry Magwire, in answer to a question, "We dig the graves ourselves whin we put them away, an' sometimes there's a fight in the place whin two berryin's meet. Why is that? Faith, it's not for us to be talkin' o' them deep subjects widout respict, but it's the belafe that the last wan berrid must be carryin' wather all the time to the sowls in Purgathory till the next wan comes to take the place av him. So, ye mind, when two berryin's happen to meet, aitch party is shtrivin' to be done foorst, an' wan thries to make the other lave aff, an' thin they have it. Troth, Irishmen are too handy wid their fishts entirely, it's a weak pint wid 'em. But it's a sad sight, so it is, to see the graves wid the nettles on thim an' the walls all tumblin'. It isn't every owld church that has a caretaker like him of Cashel. Bedad, he was betther nor a flock av goats to banish the weeds.
"Who was he? Faith, I niver saw him but the wan time, an' thin I had only a shot at him as he was turnin' a corner, for it was as I was lavin' Cormac's chapel the time I wint to[pg 040] Cashel on a pinance, bekase av a little throuble on me mind along av a pig that wasn't mine, but got mixed wid mine whin I was afther killin' it. But, as I obsarved, it was only a shot at him I had, for it wasn't aften that he was seen in the daytime, but done all his work in the night, an' it isn't me that 'ud be climbin' the Rock av Cashel afther the sun 'ud go to slape. Not that there's avil sper'ts there, for none that's bad can set fut on that holy ground day or night, but I'm not afther wantin' to meet a sper't av any kind, even if it's good, for how can ye tell about thim. Sure aven the blessed saints have been desaved, an' it's not for a sinner like me to be settin' up for to know more than thimselves. But it was the long, bent body that he had, like he'd a burdhen on his back, as they say, God be good to him, he had on his sowl, an' a thin, white face wid the hair an' beard hangin' about it, an' the great, blue eyes lookin' out as if he was gazin' on the other worruld. No, I didn't run down the rock, but I didn't walk aither, but jist bechuxt the two, wid a sharp eye round the corners that I passed. No more do I belave there was harrum in him, but, God's prisence be about us, ye can't tell.
"He was a man o' Clare be the name av Paddy O'Sullivan, an' lived on the highway betune Crusheen an' Ennis, an' they do say that whin he was a lad, there wasn't a finer to be seen in the County; a tall, shtrappin' young felly wid an eye like a bay'net, an' a fisht like a shmith, an' the fut an' leg av him 'ud turn the hearts o' half the wimmin in the parish. An' they was all afther him, like they always do be whin a man is good lookin', sure I've had a little o' that same exparience mesilf. Ye needn't shmile. I know me head has no more hair on it than an egg, an' I think me last tooth 'ull come out tomorrer, bad cess to the day, but they do say that[pg 041] forty years ago, I cud have me pick av the gurruls, an' mebbe they're mishtaken an' mebbe not. But I was sayin', the gurruls were afther Paddy like rats afther chaze, an' sorra a wan o' thim but whin she spied him on the road, 'ud shlip behind the hedge to shmooth her locks a bit an' set the shawl shtraight on her head. An' whin there was a bit av a dance, niver a boy 'ud get a chance till Paddy made his chice to dance wid, an' sorra a good word the rest o' the gurruls 'ud give that same. Och, the tongues that wimmin have! Sure they're sharper nor a draggin's tooth. Faith, I know that well too, for I married two o' them an' larned a deal too afther doin' it, an' axin' yer pardon, it's my belafe that if min knewn as much before marryin' as afther, bedad, the owld maid population 'ud be greatly incrased.
"Howandiver, afther a bit, Paddy left carin' for thim all, that, in my consate, is a moighty safe way, and begun to look afther wan. Her name was Nora O'Moore, an' she was as clever a gurrul as 'ud be found bechuxt Limerick an' Galway. She was kind o' resarved like, wid a face as pale as a shroud, an' hair as black as a crow, an' eyes that looked at ye an' never seen ye. No more did she talk much, an' whin Paddy 'ud be sayin' his fine spaches, she'd listen wid her eyes cast down, an' whin she'd had enough av his palaver, she'd jist look at him, an' somehow Paddy felt that his p'liteness wasn't the thing to work wid. He cudn't undhershtand her, an' bedad, many's the man that's caught be not undhershtandin' thim. There's rivers that's quiet on top bekase they're deep, an' more that's quiet bekase they're not deep enough to make a ripple, but phat's the differ if ye can't sound thim, an' whin a woman's quiet, begorra, it's not aisy to say if she's deep or shallow. But Nora was a deep wan, an' as good as iver drew a breath. She thought a dale av[pg 042] Paddy, only she'd be torn limb from limb afore she'd let him know it till he confist first. Well, my dear, Paddy wint on, at firsht it was only purtindin' he was, an' whin he found she cudn't be tuk wid his chaff, he got in airnest, an' afore he knewn it, he was dead in love wid Nora, an' had as much show for gettin' out agin as a shape in a bog, an' sorra a bit did he know at all at all, whether she cared a traneen for him. It's funny entirely that whin a man thinks a woman is afther him, he's aff like a hare, but if she doesn't care a rap, begob, he'll give the nose aff his face to get her. So it was wid Paddy an' Nora, axceptin' that Paddy didn't know that Nora wanted him as much as he wanted her.
"So, wan night, whin he was bringin' her from a dance that they'd been at, he said to her that he loved her betther than life an' towld her would she marry him, an' she axed was it jokin' or in airnest he was, an' he said cud she doubt it whin he loved her wid all the veins av his heart, an' she trimbled, turnin' paler than iver, an' thin blushin' rosy red for joy an' towld him yes, an' he kissed her, an' they both thought the throuble was all over foriver. It's a way thim lovers has, an' they must be axcused, bekase it's the same wid thim all.
"But it wasn't at all, fur Nora had an owld squireen av a father, that was as full av maneness as eggs is av mate. Sure he was the divil entirely at home, an' niver left off wid the crassness that was in him. The timper av him was spiled be rason o' losing his bit o' money wid cârds an' racin', an' like some min, he tuk it out wid his wife an' dawther. There was only the three o' thim in it, an' they do say that whin he was crazy wid dhrink, he'd bate thim right an' lift, an' turn thim out o' the cabin into the night, niver heeding, the baste, phat 'ud come to thim. But they niver said a word thimselves, an' the nabers only larned av it be seein' thim.
[pg 043]"Well. Whin O'Moore was towld that Paddy was kapin' comp'ny wid Nora, an' the latther an' her mother towld him she wanted fur to marry Paddy, the owld felly got tarin' mad, fur he was as proud as a paycock, an' though he'd nothin' himself, he riz agin the match, an' all the poor mother an' Nora cud say 'udn't sthir him.
"'Sure I've nothin' agin him,' he'd say, 'barrin' he's as poor as a fiddler, an' I want Nora to make a good match.'
"Now the owld felly had a match in his mind fur Nora, a lad from Tipperary, whose father was a farmer there, an' had a shmart bit av land wid no end av shape grazin' on it, an' the Tipperary boy wasn't bad at all, only as shtupid as a donkey, an' whin he'd come to see Nora, bad cess to the[pg 044] word he'd to say, only look at her a bit an' thin fall aslape an' knock his head agin the wall. But he wanted her, an' his father an' O'Moore put their heads together over a glass an' aggrade that the young wans 'ud be married.
"'Sure I don't love him a bit, father,' Nora 'ud say.
"'Be aff wid yer nonsinse,' he'd say to her. 'Phat does it matther about love, whin he's got more nor a hunderd shape. Sure I wudn't give the wool av thim fur all the love in Clare,' says he, an' wid that the argymint 'ud end.
"So Nora towld Paddy an' Paddy said he'd not give her up for all the men in Tipperary or all the shape in Ireland, an' it was aggrade that in wan way or another, they'd be married in spite av owld O'Moore, though Nora hated to do it, bekase, as I was afther tellin' ye, she was a good gurrul, an' wint to mass an' to her duty reg'lar. But like the angel that she was, she towld her mother an' the owld lady was agrayble, an' so Nora consinted.
"But O'Moore was shrewder than a fox whin he was sober, an' that was whin he'd no money to shpend in dhrink, an' this bein' wan o' thim times, he watched Nora an' begun to suspicion somethin'. So he made belave that everything was right an' the next time that Murphy, that bein' the name o' the Tipperary farmer, came, the two owld fellys settled it that O'Moore an' Nora 'ud come to Tipperary av the Winsday afther, that bein' the day o' the fair in Ennis that they knew Paddy 'ud be at, an' whin they got to Tipperary, they'd marry Nora an' young Murphy at wanst. So owld Murphy was to sind the câr afther thim an' everything was made sure. So, av the Winsday, towards noon, says owld O'Moore to Nora,--
"'Be in a hurry now, me child, an' make yersel' as fine as ye can, an' Murphy's câr 'ull be here to take us to the fair.'
[pg 045]"Nora didn't want to go, for Paddy was comin' out in the afthernoon, misthrustin' that owld O'Moore 'ud be at the fair. But O'Moore only towld her to make haste wid hersilf or they'd be late, an' she did. So the câr came, wid a boy dhriving, an' owld O'Moore axed the boy if he wanted to go to the fair, so that Nora cudn't hear him, an' the boy said yes, an' O'Moore towld him to go an' he'd dhrive an' bring him back tomorrer. So the boy wint away, an' O'Moore an' Nora got up an' shtarted. Whin they came to the crass-road, O'Moore tuk the road to Tipperary.
"'Sure father, ye're wrong,' says Nora, 'that's not the way.'
"'No more is it,' said the owld desayver, 'but I'm afther wantin' to see a frind o' mine over here a bit an' we'll come round to the Ennis road on the other side,' says he.
"So Nora thought no more av it, but whin they wint on an' on, widout shtoppin' at all, she begun to be disquisitive agin.
"'Father, is it to Ennis or not ye're takin' me,' says she.
"Now, be this time, they'd got on a good bit, an' the owld villin seen it was no use thryin' to desave her any longer.
"'I'm not,' says he, 'but it's to Tipperary ye're goin', where ye're to be married to Misther Murphy this blessed day, so ye are, an' make no throuble about it aither, or it'll be the worse for ye,' says he, lookin' moighty black.
"Well, at first Nora thought her heart 'ud shtand still. 'Sure, Father dear, ye don't mane it, ye cudn't be so cruel. It's like a blighted tree I'd be, wid that man,' an' she thried to jump aff the câr, but her father held her wid a grip av stale.
"'Kape still,' says he wid his teeth closed like a vise. 'If[pg 046] ye crass me, I'm like to murdher ye. It's me only escape from prison, for I'm in debt an' Murphy 'ull help me,' says he. 'Sure,' says he, saftenin' a bit as he seen the white face an' great pleadin' eyes, 'Sure ye'll be happy enough wid Murphy. He loves ye, an' ye can love him, an' besides, think o' the shape.'
"But Nora sat there, a poor dumb thing, wid her eyes lookin' deeper than iver wid the misery that was in thim. An' from that minit, she didn't spake a word, but all her sowl was detarmined that she'd die afore she'd marry Murphy, but how she'd get out av it she didn't know at all, but watched her chance to run.
"Now it happened that owld O'Moore, bein' disturbed in his mind, mistuk the way, an' whin he come to the crass-roads, wan to Tipperary an' wan to Cashel, he tuk the wan for the other, an' whin the horse thried to go home to Tipperary, he wudn't let him, but pulled him into the Cashel road. Faix, he might have knewn that if he'd let the baste alone, he'd take him right, fur horses knows a dale more than ye'd think. That horse o' mine is only a common garron av a baste, but he tuk me from Ballyvaughn to Lisdoon Varna wan night whin it was so dark that ye cudn't find yer nose, an' wint be the rath in a gallop, like he'd seen the good people. But niver mind, I'll tell ye the shtory some time, only I was thinkin' O'Moore might have knewn betther.
"But they tuk the Cashel road an' wint on as fast as they cud, for it was afthernoon an' gettin' late. An' O'Moore kept lookin' about an' wonderin' that he didn't know the counthry, though he'd niver been to Tipperary but wanst, an' afther a while, he gev up that he was lost entirely. No more wud he ax the people on the road, but gev thim 'God save ye' very short, for he was afeared Nora might make throuble.[pg 047] An' by an' by, it come on to rain, an' whin they turned the corner av a hill, he seen the Rock o' Cashel wid the churches on it, an' thin he stopped.
"'Phat's this at all,' says he. 'Faix, if that isn't Cashel I'll ate it, an' we've come out o' the way altogether.'
"Nora answered him niver a word, an' he shtarted to turn round, but whin he looked at the horse, the poor baste was knocked up entirely.
"'We'll go on to Cashel,' says he, 'an' find a shebeen, an' go back in the mornin'. It's hard luck we're afther havin',' says he.
"So they wint on, an' jist afore they got to the Rock, they seen a nate lodgin' house be the road an' wint in. He left Nora to sit be the fire, while he wint to feed the horse, an' whin he come back in a minit, he looked for her, but faith, she'd given him the shlip an' was gone complately.
"'Where is me dawther?' says he.
"'Faith, I dunno,' says the maid. 'She walked out av the dure on the minit,' says she.
"Owld O'Moore run, an' Satan an' none but himself turned him in the way she was afther takin.' God be good to thim, no wan iver knewn phat tuk place, but whin they wint wid a lanthern to sarch[pg 048] fur thim whin they didn't raturn, they found the marks o' their feet on the road to the strame. Half way down the path they picked up Nora's shawl that was torn an' flung on the ground an' fut marks in plenty they found, as if he had caught her an' thried to howld her an' cudn't, an' on the marks wint to the high bank av the strame, that was a torrent be razon av the rain. An' there they ended wid a big slice o' the bank fallen in, an' the sarchers crassed thimselves wid fright an' wint back an' prayed for the repose av their sowls.
"The next day they found thim, a good Irish mile down the strame, owld O'Moore wid wan hand howlding her gown an' the other wan grippin' her collar an' the clothes half torn aff her poor cowld corpse, her hands stratched out afore her, wid the desperation in her heart to get away, an' her white face wid the great eyes an' the light gone out av thim, the poor craythur, God give her rest, an' so to us all.
"They laid thim dacintly, wid candles an' all, an' the wake that they had was shuparb, fur the shtory was towld in all the counthry, wid the vartues av Nora; an' the O'Brian's come from Ennis, an' the O'Moore's from Crusheen, an' the Murphy's an' their frinds from Tipperary, an' more from Clonmel. There was a power av atin' an' slathers av dhrink fur thim that wanted it, fur, d'ye mind, thim of Cashel thried fur to show the rale Irish hoshpitality, bekase O'Moore an' Nora were sint there to die an' they thought it was their juty to thrate thim well. An' all the County Clare an' Tipperary was at the berryin', an' they had three keeners, the best that iver was, wan from Ennis, wan from Tipperary, an' wan from Limerick, so that the praises av Nora wint on day an' night till the berryin' was done. An' they made Nora's grave in Cormac's Chapel just in front o' the Archbishop's[pg 049] tomb in the wall an' berried her first, an' tuk O'Moore as far from her as they cud get him, an' put his grave as clost be the wall as they cud go fur the shtones an' jist ferninst the big gate on the left hand side, an' berried him last, an' sorra the good word they had fur him aither.
"Poor Paddy wint nayther to the wake nor to the berryin', fur afther they towld him the news, he sat as wan in a dhrame, no more cud they rouse him. He'd go to his work very quite, an' niver shpake a word. An' so it was, about a fortnight afther, he says to his mother, says he, 'Mother I seen Nora last night an' she stood be me side an' laid her hand on me brow, an' says "Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, an' be wid me."' An' his mother was frighted entirely, for she parsaved he was wrong in his head. She thried to aise his mind, but the next night he disappared. They folly'd him to Cashel, but he dodged an' kept from thim complately whin they come an' so they left him. In the day he'd hide an' slape, an' afther night, Nora's sper't 'ud mate him an' walk wid him up an' down the shtones av the Chapel an' undher the arches av the Cathaydral, an' he cared fur her grave, an' bekase she was berried there, fur the graves av all thim that shlept on the Rock. No more had he any frinds, but thim o' Cashel 'ud lave pitaties an' bread where he'd see it an' so he lived. Fur sixty wan years was he on the Rock an' never left it, but he'd sometimes show himself in the day whin there was a berryin', an' say, 'Ye've brought me another frind,' an' help in the work, an' never was there a graveyard kept like that o' Cashel.
"When he got owld, an' where he cud look into the other worruld, Nora came ivery night an' brought more wid her, sper'ts av kings an' bishops that rest on Cashel, an' there's thim that's seen the owld man walkin' in Cormac's Chapel,[pg 050] Nora holdin' him up an' him discoorsin' wid the mighty dead. They found him wan day, cowld an' shtill, on Nora's grave, an' laid him be her side, God rest his sowl, an' there he slapes to-day, God be good to him.
"They said he was only a poor owld innocent, but all is aqualized, an' thim that's despised sometimes have betther comp'ny among the angels than that of mortials."
Among the beautiful traits of the Irish character, none is more prominent than the religious element. Philosophers declare that the worshipping principle is strong in proportion to the lack of happiness in the circumstances of life, and at first glance there seems a degree of truth in the statement; for the rich, enjoying their riches, are likely to be contented and to look no further than this world; while the poor, oppressed and ground to the earth by those whom they feel to be no better than themselves, having that innate sense of justice common to all men, and discerning the inequality of worldly lots, are not slow to place implicit belief in the doctrine of a final judgment, at which all inequalities will be righted, and both rich and poor will stand side by side; the former gaining no advantage from his riches, the latter being at no disadvantage from his poverty.
There is, however, good reason to believe that in the days of Ireland's greatness there was the same strength of devotion as at present. Ireland is so full of ruined churches and ecclesiastical buildings as to give color of truth to the statement of a recent traveller, "it is a country of ruins." Rarely is the traveller out of sight of the still standing walls of a long deserted church, and not infrequently the churches are found[pg 052] in groups. The barony of Forth, in Wexford, though comprising a territory of only 40,000 acres, contains the ruins of eighteen churches, thirty-three chapels, two convents, and a hospital of vast proportions. Nor is this district exceptional, for at Glendalough, Clon-mac-nois, Inniscathy, Inch Derrin, and Innis Kealtra, there are groups of churches, each group having seven churches, the edifices of goodly size, and at Clonferth and Holy Cross, there are seven chapels in each town, so close together as to cause wonder whether all were called into use.
One manifestation of the religious element of the Irish nature is seen in the profound reverence for the memory of the saints. Of these, Ireland claims, according to one authority, no less than seventy-five thousand, and it is safe to say that the curious inquirer might find one or more legends of each, treasured up in the unwritten folk-lore of the country districts. To the disadvantage of the minor saints, however, most of the stories cluster round a few well-known names, and nothing delights the Irish story-teller more than to relate legends of the saints, which he does with a particularity as minute in all its details as though he had stood by the side of the saint, had seen everything that was done, and heard every word that was spoken; supplying missing links in the chain of the story from a ready imagination, and throwing over the whole the glamour of poetic fancy inseparable from the Irish nature.
The neighborhood of Glendalough, County Wicklow, is sacred to the memory of Saint Kevin, and abounds with legends of his life and works. The seven churches which, according to tradition, were built there under his direction, are now mostly in ruins; his bed, a hollow in a precipice, is still shown, together with his kitchen and the altar at which he once ministered. In the graveyard of one of the churches is a curious[pg 053] stone cross, of considerable size, evidently monumental, though the inscription has been so defaced as to be illegible. On the front of the cross there is a deep indentation much resembling that made by the hoof of a cow in soft earth, the bottom of the indentation being deepest at the sides and somewhat ridged in the middle. Concerning this cross and the depression in its face, the following legend was related by an old peasant of the neighborhood.
"Ye must know, that among all the saints that went to heaven from Ireland's sod, there isn't wan, barrin' Saint Patrick, that stands in a betther place than the blessed Saint Kevin av Glendalough, fur the wondherful things that he done is past all tellin'. 'Twas he that built all the churches ye see[pg 054] in the vale here, an' when he lived, he owned all the land round about, fur he restored King O'Toole's goose, that the king had such divarshun in, when it was too ould to fly, so the king gev him all that the goose 'ud fly over, an' when the goose got her wings agin, she was so merry that she flew over mighty near all the land that King O'Toole had before she come back at all, so he got it.
"'Twas he too that put out o' the counthry the very last sarpint that was left in it, afther Saint Patrick had druv the rest into the say, fur he met the baste wan day as he was walkin' in the hills and tuk him home wid him to give him the bit an' sup, an' the sarpint got as dhrunk as a piper, so Saint Kevin put him in a box an' nailed it up an' flung it into the say, where it is to this blessed day.
"But 'tis my belafe that the besht job o' work he ever done was markin' the divil so if you'd meet him an the road, you'd know in a minnit that it was himself an' no other that was in it, an' so make ready, aither fur to run away from him, or to fight him wid prayin' as fast as ye cud, bekase, ye see, it's no use fur to shtrive wid him any other way, seein' that no waypon can make the laste dint on his carkidge.
"In thim days, an' before phat tuk place I'm tellin' ye av, the divil was all as wan as a man, a tall felly like a soger, wid a high hat comin' to a pint an' feathers on it, an' fine boots an' shpurs an' a short red jacket wid a cloak over his shoulder an' a soord be his side, as fine as any gintleman av' the good ould times. So he used to go about the counthry, desavin' men an' wimmin, the latther bein' his chice as bein' aisier fur to desave, an' takin' thim down wid him to his own place, an' it was a fine time he was havin' entirely, an' everything his own way. Well, as he was thravellin' about, he heard wan day av Saint Kevin an' the church he was afther buildin' an'[pg 055] the haythens he was convartin' an' he says to himself, 'Sure this won't do. I must give up thriflin' an' look afther me bizness, or me affairs 'ull go to the dogs, so they will.'
"It was in Kerry he was when he heard the news, an' was havin' a fine time there, fur when Saint Patrick convarted Ireland, he didn't go to Kerry, but only looked into it an' blessed it an' hurried on, but though he didn't forget it, intindin', I belave, to go back, the divil tuk up his quarthers there, to make it as sure as he cud. But when he heard av Saint Kevin's doin's, it was too much fur him, so he shtarted an' come from Kerry to Glendalough wid wan jump, an' there sure enough, the walls o' the church were risin' afore his eyes, an' as he stud on that hill he heard the avenin' song o' the monks that were helpin' Saint Kevin in the work. So the divil was tarin' mad, an' stud on the brow o' the hill, cursin' to himself an' thinkin' that if any more churches got into Ireland, his job o' work 'ud be gone, an' he'd betther go back to England where he come from. He made up his mind though, that he'd do fur Saint Kevin if he cud, but mind ye, the blessed saint was so well beknownst to all the counthry, that the divil was afeared to tackle him. So he laid about in the grass, on his breast like a sarpint fur three or four days till they were beginnin' to put the roof on, and then he thought he'd thry.
"Now I must tell ye wan thing. The blessed saint was at that time only a young felly, though they don't make 'em any betther than he was. When he left home, he'd a shweetheart be the name o' Kathleen, an' she loved him betther than her life, an' so did he her in that degray that he'd lay down an' die on the shpot fur the love av her, but his juty called him fur to be God's priest, an' he turned his back on father an' mother an' saddest av all on Kathleen, though it was like tarin' out his heart it was, an' came to Glendalough. Kathleen[pg 056] was like to die, but afther a bit, she got over it a little an' went into a convent, for, says she, 'I'll marry no wan, an' 'ull meet him in heaven.' But Saint Kevin didn't know phat had become av her, an' thried hard not to think av her, but wanst in a while the vision av her 'ud come back to him like the mem'ry av a beautiful dhrame.
"Now about this time, while the divil was layin' about in the bushes a-watchin' the work, an' the tower of the big church was liftin' itself above the trees, the blessed saint begun to be onaisy in his mind, fur, says he to himself, 'Things is too aisy entirely. It's just thim times when all is goin' on as smooth as a duck on a pond that the divil comes down like a fox on a goslin' an' takes every wan unbeknownst, so wins the vict'ry. I'll have a care, fur afther the sunshine comes the shtorm,' says he. So that avenin' he ordhered his monks to say a thousand craydos, an' two thousand paters an' aves, an' afther that was done, he got in his boat an' crassed the lake. He climbed up to his bed above ye there, an' said his baids agin an' went to slape, but the divil was watchin' him like a hawk, for he'd laid a thrap fur the blessed saint to catch him wid, that was thish-a-way.
"Every body knows how that Satan is shlicker than a weasel, an' has a mem'ry like a miser's box that takes in everything an' lets nothin' go out. When ye do anything, sorra a bit av it 'scapes the divil, an' he hugs it clost till a time comes when he can make a club av it to bate ye wid, an' so he does. The owld felly remimbered all that passed betune Kathleen an' the blessed saint, an' he knewn how hard it was fur Saint Kevin to forgit her, so he thought he'd put him in a fix. Afther the saint had cuddled up in his shtraw wid his cloak over him an' was shnoring away as snug as a flea in a blanket, comes the divil, a-climbin' up the[pg 057] rock, in the exact image o' the young Kathleen. Ye may think it quare, but it's no wondher to thim that undherstands it, fur the divil can take any shape he plazes an' look like any wan he wants to, an' so he does for the purpose av temptin' us poor sinners to disthruction, but there's wan thing be which he's always known; when ye've given up to him or when ye've baten him out o' the face, no matther which, he's got to throw aff the disguise that's on him an' show you who he is, an' when he does it, it isn't the iligant, dressed-up divil that ye see an' that I was just tellin' ye av, but the rale, owld, black nagur av a rannychorus, widout a haporth o' rags to the back av him, an' his horns an' tail a-shtickin' out, an' his eyes as big as an oxen's an' shinin' like fire, an' great bat's wings on him, an', savin' yer prisince, the most nefairius shmell o' sulfur ye ever shmelt. But before, he looks all right, no matther phat face he has, an' it's only be the goodness o' God that the divil is bound fur to show himself to ye, bekase, Glory be to God, it's his will that men shall know who they're dalin' wid, an' if they give up to the divil, an' afther findin' out who's in it, go on wid the bargain they've made, sure the fault is their own, an' they go to hell wid their eyes open, an' if they bate him, he's got to show himself fur to let thim see phat they've escaped.
"Well, I was afther sayin', the divil was climbin' up the rock in the form o' Kathleen, an' come to the saint's bed an' teched him an the shouldher. The blessed saint was layin' there belike dhraming o' Kathleen, fur sure, there was no harm in that, an' when he woke up an' seen her settin' be his side, he thought the eyes 'ud lave him.
"'Kathleen,' says he, 'is it yoursilf that's in it, an' me thinkin' I'd parted from you forever?'
"'It is,' says the ould desaver, 'an' no other, Kevin darlint, an' I've come to shtay wid ye.'
[pg 058]"'Sure darlint,' says the saint, 'ye know how it bruk me heart entirely to lave ye, no more wud I have done it, but be the will o' God. Ye know I loved ye, an' God forgive me, I'm afeared I love ye still, but it isn't right, Kathleen. Go in pace, in the name o' God, an' lave me,' says he.
"'No Kevin,' says Satan, a-throwin' himself on Kevin's breast, wid both arrums round his neck, 'I'll never lave ye,' lettin' an to cry an' dhrop tears an the face o' the blessed saint.
"It's no aisy matther to say no to a woman anyhow, aven to an ugly woman, but when it's a good-lookin' wan that's in it, an' she axin' ye wid her arrums round ye an' the crystal dhrops like that many dimunds fallin' from her eyes that look at ye like shtars through a shower av rain, begob it's meself that doesn't undhershtand why Saint Kevin didn't give up at wanst, an' so he wud if he hadn't been the blessed saint that he was. But he was mightily flusthered, an' no wondher, an' stud there wid his breast hayvin', a-shtrivin' to resist the timptation to thrade a crown in heaven fur a love on airth.
"'Lave this place, Kevin,' says the tempther, 'an' come wid me, we'll go away an' be happy together forever,' an' wid that word, an' as the fate av the saint was trimblin' in the balances, the holy angels o' God stud beside him, an' wan whishpered in his ear that the Kathleen he loved before was a pure, good woman, an' that she'd 'a' died afore she'd come to him that-a-way.
"'No,' says he, wid sudden shtrength. 'It's not Kathleen that's in it, but an avil sper't. God's prisence be about us! Get you gone Satan an' sayce to throuble me,' an' that minnit the blessed saint jumped up aff the ground an' wid his two feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin' kick in the stummick, an' when he doubled up wid the pain an' fell back an'[pg 059] clapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin gev him another in his rare, axin' yer pardon, that sent him clane over the clift, wid Saint Kevin gatherin' shtones an' flingin' thim afther him wid all the might that was in him. So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst kick, Kathleen disappeared, an' there was the owld black Belzebub a-tumblin' over, an' fallin' down to the lake, holdin' his stummick an' thryin' hard to catch himself wid his wings afore he'd hit the wather. But he did by the time he got to the bottom an' flew away, bellerin' worse nor a bull with a dog hangin' to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid fright, an' cudn't go to shlape agin till they'd said a craydo an' five aves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin' his baids the rest o' the night wid a pile o' shtones convaynient to his hand fur fear the divil 'ud come back. But Satan flew over an that hill an' rubbed himself before an' behind too, where the saint had kicked him, an' didn't go back, for he'd enough o' the saint fur that time. But he was mightily vexed, an' not to lose the chance fur to do some mischief before he'd go away, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day.
"Now there's thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen that Saint Kevin kicked over the clift, but sure that's not thrue, fur it's not in an Irishman to thrate a woman that-a-way, that makes me belave that the shtory I'm tellin' ye was the thrue shtory an' that it wasn't Kathleen at all, but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, an my blessin' an him fur that same, fur he come out very well axceptin' five or six blisthers on his face, where the divil's tears touched him, that's well known to make blisthers on phatever they touch.
"Well, as I was sayin', he pulled down the church walls,[pg 060] an' the monks put thim up agin, an' the next mornin' they were down, an' so fur a good bit the contist went an betune the divil an' the monks, a-shtrivin' if they cud build up fashter than he cud pull down, fur he says to himself, Satan did, 'Jagers, I can't be losin' me time here widout doin' something, nor, bedad, no more can I tell how to rache the saint widout sarcumspectin' him.'
"But the saint bate him at that game, for wan night, afther the work was done, he put half the monks on the wall to watch there the night, an' when Satan come flyin' along like the dirthy bat that he was, there was the monks all along be the day's job, aitch wan a-sayin' his baids as fast as he cud an' a bottle o' holy wather be his side to throw at the divil when he'd come. So he went from thim an' be takin' turns at watchin' an' workin', they finished the church.
"In coorse o' time, Saint Kevin wanted another church an'[pg 061] begun to build it too, for he said, 'Begob, I'll have that church done be fall if every grain o' sand in Glendalough becomes a divil an' rises up fur to purvint it,' an' so he did, Glory be to God, but at first was bothered to git the money fur to raise the walls. Well, wan day as he was in the bother, he was walkin' an the hills, an' he heard the clattherin' av a horse's feet behind him an the road, an' afore he cud turn round, up comes the most illigant black horse ye ever seen, an' a tall gintleman a ridin' av him, wid all the look av a soger, a broad hat on the head av him, an' a silk jacket wid goold trimmin's, an' shtripes on his britches, an' gloves to his elbows, an' soord an' shpurs a-jinglin', the same as he was a rich lord.
"'God save ye,' says the saint.
"'God save ye kindly,' says the gintleman, an' they walked an together an' fell into convarsin'.
"'I'm towld ye're afther buildin' another church,' says the gintleman.
"'It's thrue for ye,' says the saint, 'but it's meself that's bothered about that same, for I've no money,' says he.
"'That's too bad,' says the gintleman; 'have ye axed for help?' says he.
"'Faix, indade I have,' says the saint, 'but the times is hard, an' the money goin' out o' the counthry to thim blaggârd landlords in England,' says he.
"'It's right ye are,' says the gintleman, 'but I've hopes o' betther times when the tinants get the land in their own hands,' says he. 'I'm goin' to right thim avils. I'm the new Lord Liftinant,' says he, 'an' able to help ye an the job, undher a proper undhershtandin',' says he.
"At foorst Saint Kevin was that surprised that he'd like to dhrop an the road, fur he hadn't heard av the 'pintmint av[pg 062] a new Lord Liftinant, but he raizoned wid himself that it cud aisily be done widout his knowin' av it, an' so he thought he'd a shtrake av luck in seein' av him.
"'God be good to yer Lordship,' says he, 'an' make yer bed in the heavens, an' it's thankful I'd be fur any shmall favors ye plaze to give, fur it's very poor we are.'
"'An' phat 'ud ye say to a prisint av tin thousand pound,' says the gintleman, 'purvided ye spind it an the church ye have an' not in buildin' a new wan,' says the gintleman, an' wid that word, Saint Kevin knew the ould inimy, an' shtarted at him.
"But the divil had enough o' Saint Kevin's heels, for he'd felt the kick he cud give wid 'em, an' faix, the blessed saint was as well sarcumstanced in that quarther as a donkey, an' Belzebub knew that same, so he niver stayed, but when he saw Saint Kevin comin', immejitly the black horse changed into a big dhraggin, an' the illigant close dhrapped aff the divil an' in his own image he went aff shpurrin' the dhraggin, he an' the baste flappin' their wings as fast as they cud to get out of the saint's way an' lavin' afther thim the shmell av sulfur that shtrong that the blessed saint did nothin' for an hour but hould his nose an' cough.
"Afther thim two axpayriences, the divil seen it was no use o' him offerin' fur to conthraven Saint Kevin, so he rayjuiced his efforts to botherin' the monks at the work. He'd hang about day an' night, doin' all the mischief that he cud, bekase, says he, 'If I can't shtop thim, by Jayminy, I'll delay thim to that degray that they'll find it the shlowest job they ever undhertuk,' says he, an' so it was. When they'd finish a bit o' the wall an' lave it to dhry, up 'ud come the divil an' kick it over; when two o' them 'ud be carrying a heavy shtone, the divil, unbeknownst to thim, 'ud knock it out o' their hands so[pg 063] as to make it dhrop on their toes, a-thinkin' belike, that they'd shwear on the quiet to thimselves: that they never did; when a holy father 'ud lay down his hammer an' turn his back, the divil 'ud snatch it up an' fling it aff the wall; till wid his knockin' over the wather-bucket, an' shcrapin' aff the morthar, an' upsettin' the hod o' bricks, an' makin' the monks forgit where they'd put things, it got so that they were in a muck o' shweat every hour o' the day; an' from that time it got to be said, when anything wint wrong widout a raizon, that the divil's in it.
"Now whin Saint Kevin conshecrated the church, they tuk wid it the ground round about as far as ye see that shtone wall, for, says he, 'Sure it'll always be handy.' So in coorse o' time, as the second church was gettin' done, wan avenin' Saint Kevin went out wid a bucket fur to milk his cow, that had just come down from the mountain where she'd been grazin'. Well, he let the calf to her, an' the poor little baste bein' hungry, fur I belave the cow hadn't come up the night afore, it begun on wan side an' the saint an the other, an' the calf was suckin' away wid all the jaws it had, an' kep' up a haythenish punchin' wid its nose beways av a hint to the cow fur to give up more milk. The calf punched an' the cow kicked, fur, mind ye, the divil was in thim both, the poor bastes, no more was it their fault at all, an' betune howldin' the bucket in wan hand an' milking wid the other wan, an' kapin' his eye shkinned for the cow's heels, an' shovin' the calf from his side, the saint was like to lose all the milk.
"'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'shtand shtill, ye onnattheral crayther, or I'll bate the life out o' ye, so I will,' says he, tarin' mad, fur the calf was gettin' all, an' the bottom o' the bucket not covered. But the cow wudn't do it, so the blessed saint tuk the calf be the years fur to drag him away, an' then[pg 064] the cow run at him wid her horns so that he had to let go the calf's years an' dodge an' was in a bother entirely. But he got him a club in case the cow 'ud offer fur to hook him agin, an' opened the gate into the field behind the church, an' afther a good dale o' jumpin' about he sucsayded in dhrivin' in the cow an' kapin' out the calf. Then he shut the gate an' wipin' the shweat aff his blessed face, he got the bucket an' shtool an' set down to milk in pace. But be this time the cow was tarin' mad at bein' shut from the calf, an' at the first shquaze he gev her, she jumped like she'd heard a banshee, an' then phat 'ud she do but lift up her heel an' give him a kick an the skull fit to crack it fur him an' laid him on the grass, an' turnin' round, she put her fut in the bucket an' stud lookin' at him, as fur to ax if he'd enough.
"'The divil brile the cow,' says the saint, God forgive him fur cursin' her, but ye see he'd lost all consate av her be the throuble he'd had wid her afore, besides the crack on his head, that was well nigh aiquel to the kick he cud give himself, so that he was axcusable fur phat he was sayin', fur it's no joke I'm tellin' ye to be made a showbogher av, be a baste av a cow.
"'Sure I will, yer Riverince,' says a deep voice behind him, 'an' thank ye fur that same favor, fur it's a fat bit she is.'
"Saint Kevin riz up a-rubbin' his head as fast as he cud an' looked round an' there sure enough was owld Satan himself standin' there grinnin' away wid the horrid mouth av him stratched from year to year, a-laughin' at the fix the saint was in. Well, the minnit Saint Kevin set his two eyes an him, he knewn he had him, fur ye see, the ground was conshecrated, but the divil didn't know it fur it was done wan time when he'd gone to Cork to attind a landlord's convintion to raise the rints on a lot o' shtarving tinants, that bein' a favorite[pg 065] job wid him. If he'd knewn the ground was holy, he'd never dared to set fut an it, fur ye see, if ye can ketch the divil an holy ground where he's no bizness, ye've got him fast an' tight an' can pull him in when ye plaze. But the saint wasn't goin' to give the owld desaver any show so he run at him an' gripped him be the horns, the same as he was a goat, an' threw him an the ground an' tied his hands wid a pace av his own gown that he tore aff, an' the divil, do phat he cud, wasn't able to break loose.
"'Now,' says he, 'ye slatherin', blood-suckin', blaggârdin' nagur, I'll fix ye, ye owld hippypotaymus, so as ivery sowl in Ireland 'ull know ye where ever ye're met.'
"So he rowled up his shlaves an' shpit an his hands an' fell to work. He onschrewed the divil's left leg at the jint av the knee, an' laid it an the grass. Then he tuk aff the cow's right hind leg at the knee an' laid that an the grass. Then he schrewed the owld cow's leg an the divil's knee, an' the divil's fut an the owld cow's leg, an' untied Satan an' bid him git up.
"'Now,' says he to him, 'do you go at wanst, an' I bid ye that when ye meet man or mortial, the foorst thing ye do is to show that fut that they know from the shtart who ye are. Now shtart, ye vagabone blaggârd av a shpalpeen, or I'll kick the backbone shtrait up into the shkull o' ye. Out!' he says, flourishin' his fut at him.
"Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted no more benedictions from the toes o' Saint Kevin, but not bein' used to his new leg, the very foorst shtep he made wid it, it kicked out behind agin this shtone, that wasn't a crass at all then, an' made this hole that ye see, an' Saint Kevin tuk the shtone an' made a crass av it aftherwards. But the divil didn't shtop at all when the leg wudn't go fur him, fur[pg 066] he seen the blessed saint comin', a-wavin' his fut about, so he rowled over an' over till he got to the wall, then made a shpring an it an' out av sight like a ghost.
"That's the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see he's niver larned fur to manage it, an' goes limpity-lop, an' though he wears a cloak, is obligated fur to show the cow's fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if he doesn't, begorra, the leg does fur itself, fur it's niver forgot the thrick av kicking the owld cow larned it, an' if Satan waits a minnit, up goes the cow's fut, as hard an' high as the last time she kicked the saint. No more did the divil ever dare to come there agin, so the blessed Saint Kevin was left in pace to build the siven churches, an the divil wasn't ever seen in Glendalough, till the day the saint was berrid, an' then he peeped over the hill to look at the berryin', but he wudn't come down, thinkin', belike, it was a lie they were tellin' him when they said the saint was dead, fur to injuice him to come into the glen an' give Saint Kevin wan more whack at him wid his fut. An' they do say, that he's been to the besht docthers in the univaarse fur to get him another leg, but they cudn't do it, Glory be to God; an' so he is lame an' must show his cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that it's the divil himself that's in it, an' can run away from him before he's time to do thim harm.