Legends and Stories of Ireland (eBook)

Samuel Lover (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2018
324 Seiten
Charles River Editors (Verlag)
978-1-5183-2254-9 (ISBN)

Infos

Skyros Publishing is dedicated to reproducing the finest books ever written and letting readers of all ages experience a classic for the first time or revisit a past favorite.

Samuel Lover was an Irish writer best known for his collection Legends and Stories of Ireland.

Textauszug

KING O’TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN

..................

A LEGEND OF GLENDALOUGH

WHO HAS NOT READ OF St. Kevin, celebrated as he has been by Moore in the melodies of his native land, with whose wild and impassioned music he has so intimately entwined his name? Through him, in the beautiful ballad whence the epigraph of this story is quoted, the world already knows that the skylark, through the intervention of the saint, never startles the morning with its joyous note in the lonely valley of Glendalough. In the same ballad, the unhappy passion which the saint inspired, and the “unholy blue” eyes of Kathleen, and the melancholy fate of the heroine by the saint’s being “unused to the melting mood,” are also celebrated; as well as the superstitious, finale of the legend, in the spectral appearance of the love-lorn maiden:

“And her ghost was seen to glide

Gently o’er the fatal tide.”

Thus has Moore given, within the limits of a ballad, the spirit of two legends of Glendalough, which otherwise the reader might have been put to the trouble of reaching after a more roundabout fashion. But luckily for those coming after him, one legend he has left to be

“—touched by a hand more unworthy—”

and instead of a lyrical essence, the raw material in prose is offered, nearly verbatim, as it was furnished to me by that celebrated guide and bore, Joe Irwin, who traces his descent In a direct line from the old Irish kings, and warns the public In general that “there’s a power of them spalpeens sthravaigin’ about, sthrivin’ to put their comether upon the quol’ty (quality), and callin’ themselves Irwin (knowin’, the thieves o’ the world, how his name had gone far and near, as the rale guide), for to deceave dacent people; but never for to b’lieve the likes—for it was only mulvatherin people they wor.” For my part, I promised never to put faith in any but himself; and the old rogue’s self-love being satisfied, we set out to explore the wonders of Glendalough. On arriving at a small ruin, situated on the south-eastern side of the lake, my guide assumed an air of importance, and led me into the ivy-covered remains, through a small square doorway, whose simple structure gave evidence of its early date: a lintel of stone lay across two upright supporters, after the fashion of such remains in Ireland.

“This, sir,” said my guide, putting himself in an attitude, “is the chapel of King O’Toole—av coorse y’iv often heard o’ King O’Toole, your honour?”

“Never,” said I.

“Musha, thin, do you tell me so?” said be. “By gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o’ King O’Toole! Well, well!—but the darkness of mankind is ontellible. Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was wanst a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that ownded the Churches in the airly days.”

“Surely,” said I, “the Churches were not in King O’Toole’s time?”

“Oh, by no manes, your honour—throth, it’s yourself that’s right enough there; but you know the place is called ‘The Churches,’ bekase they wor built afther by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o’ the Churches iver more; and therefore, av coorse, the place bein’ so called, I say that the king ownded the Churches—and why not, sir, seein’ ‘twas his birthright, time out o’ mind, beyant the flood? Well, the king, you see, was the right sort—he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin’ in partic’lar; and from the risin’ o’ the sun, up he got, and away be wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer. And the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin—aye, throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that’s the way it was with the king, from the crow o’ the cock to the song o’ the redbreast.

“In this counthry, air,” added he, speaking parenthetically in an undertone, “we think it onlooky to kill the redbreast, or the robin is God’s own bird.”

Then, elevating his voice to its former pitch, he proceeded:

“Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse o’ time, the king grewn ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got athriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o’ divarshin, bekase he couldn’t go a-huntln’ no longer; and, by dad, the poor king’ was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him.”

Here an involuntary smile was produced by this regal mode of recreation, “the royal game of goose.”

“Oh, you may laugh if you like,” said he, half-affronted, “but it’s thruth I’m tellin’ you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: you see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin’ for throut (and not finer throut in all Ireland, than the same throut), and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake divartin’ the poor king, that you’d think he’d break his sides laughin’ at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so in coorse o’ time the goose was the greatest pet in the counthry, and the biggest rogue, and diverted the king to no end, and the poor king was as happy as the day was long. So that’s the way it was; and all went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the king, and grewn stiff in the limbs, like her masther, and couldn’t divert him no longer; and then it was that the poor king was lost complate, and didn’t know what in the wide world to do, seein’ he was done out of all divarshin, by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blame.

“Well, the king was nigh-hand broken-hearted, and melancholy intirely, and, was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate, an’ thinkin’ o’ drownin’ himself that could get no divarshin in life, when all of a suddint, turnin’ round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin’ up to him.

“‘God save you,’ says the king (for the king was a civil-spoken gintleman, by all accounts), ‘God save you, ‘says he to the young man.

“‘God save you kindly,’ says the young man to him back again; ‘God save you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’

“‘Thrue for you,’ says the king, ‘I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery o’ these parts,’ says he; ‘but how kem ye to know that?’ says he.

.” ‘Oh, never mind,’ says Saint Kavin.

“For you see,” said Old Joe, in his undertone again, and looking very knowingly, “it was Saint Kavin, sure enough—the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that,” says be, ‘nor twice that.’

“‘And who are you?’ said the king, ‘that makes so bowld—who are you, at all at all?’

“Oh, never you mind,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘who I am; you’ll know more o’ me before we part, King O’Toole,’ says he.

“‘I’ll be proud o’ the knowledge o’ your acqaintance, sir,’ says the king mighty p’lite.

“‘Troth, you may say that,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘And now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O’Toole?’ says he.

“‘Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?’ says the king.

“‘Oh, no matther; I was given to undherstand It,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘Oh, that’s a folly to talk,’ says the king; ‘bekase myself and my goose Is private frinds,’ says he, ‘and no one could tell you,’ says he ‘barrin’ the fairies.’

“‘Oh, thin, it wasn’t the fairies,’ says Saint Kavin; ‘for I’d have you to know,’ says he, “that I don’t keep the likes o’ sitch company.’

“You might do worse then, my gay fellow,’ says the king; ‘for it’s they could show you a crock o’ money as alay as kiss hand; and that’s not to be sneezed at,’ says the king, ‘by a poor man,’ says be.

“‘Maybe I’ve a betther way of making money rnyself’ says the saint.

“‘By gor,’ says the king, ‘barrin’ you’re a coiner,” says he, ‘that’s impossible!’

“I’d scorn to be the like, my lord!’ says Saint Kavin, mighty high, ‘I’d scorn to be the like,’ says he.

...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 22.3.2018
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Historische Romane
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Märchen / Sagen
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: Classic • Fairy tales • Folklore • History • Ireland • Irish • Literary • Myth • Stories
• ISBN-10: 1-5183-2254-9 / 1518322549
• ISBN-13: 978-1-5183-2254-9 / 9781518322549