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stay home from the Castle and eat warmed-up scraps served in
courses, with twenty minutes' wait between 'em. Now you do as I

say: take the dining-table and set it out under the window, and the
carving-table on top o' that, and see how fur up it'll reach. I

guess you can't stump a Salem woman by telling her there ain't no
ladder."

The two tables were finally in position; but there still remained
nine feet of distance to that key of the situation, Salemina's

window, and Mrs. Waterford's dressing-table went on top of this
pile. "Now, Peter," were the next orders, "if you've got sprawl

enough, and want to rest yourself by doin' something useful for once
in your life, you just hold down the dining-table; and you and

Oonah, Molly, keep the next two tables stiddy, while I climb up."
The intrepid Benella could barely reach the sill, even from this

ingeniously dizzy elevation, and Mrs. Waterford and Salemina were
called on to 'stiddy' the tables, while Molly was bidden to help by

giving an heroic 'boost' when the word of command came. The device
was completely successful, and in a trice the conqueror disappeared,

to reappear at the window holding the precious pearl-embroidered
bodice wrapped in a towel. "I wouldn't stop to fool with the door-

knob till I dropped you this," she said. "Oonah, you go and wash
your hands clean, and help Miss Peabody into it,--and mind you start

the lacing right at the top; and you, Peter, run down to Rooney's
and get the donkey and the cart, and bring 'em back with you,--and

don't you let the grass grow under your feet neither!"
There was literally no other mode of conveyance within miles, and

time was precious. Salemina wrapped herself in Francesca's long
black cloak, and climbed into the cart. Dinnis hauls turf in it,

takes a sack of potatoes or a pig to market in it, and the stubborn
little ass, blind of one eye, has never in his wholly elective

course of existence taken up the subject of speed.
It was eight o'clock when Benella mounted the seat beside Salemina,

and gave the donkey a preliminary touch of the stick.
"Be aisy wid him," cautioned Peter. "He's a very arch donkey for a

lady to be dhrivin', and mebbe he'd lay down and not get up for
you."

"Arrah! shut yer mouth, Pether. Give him a couple of belts anondher
the hind leg, melady, and that'll put the fear o' God in him!" said

Dinnis.
"I'd rather not go at all," urged Salemina timidly; "it's too late,

and too extraordinary."
"I'm not going to have it on my conscience to make you lose this

dinner-party,--not if I have to carry you on my back the whole way,"
said Benella doggedly; "and this donkey won't lay down with me

more'n once,--I can tell him that right at the start."
"Sure, melady, he'll go to Galway for you, when oncet he's started

wid himself; and it's only a couple o' fingers to the Castle,
annyways."

The four-mile drive, especially through the village of Ballyfuchsia,
was an eventful one, but by dint of prodding, poking, and belting,

Benella had accomplished half the distance in three-quarters of an
hour, when the donkey suddenly lay down 'on her,' according to

Peter's prediction. This was luckily at the town cross, where a
group of idlers rendered heartyassistance. Willing as they were to

succour a lady in disthress, they did not know of any car which
could be secured in time to be of service, but one of them offered

to walk and run by the side of the donkey, so as to kape him on his
legs. It was in this wise that Miss Peabody approached Balkilly

Castle; and when a gilded gentleman-in-waiting lifted her from
Rooney's 'plain cart,' she was just on the verge of hysterics.

Fortunately his Magnificence was English, and betrayed no surprise
at the arrival in this humble fashion of a dinner guest, but simply

summoned the Irish housekeeper, who revived her with wine, and
called on all the saints to witness that she'd never heard of such a

shameful thing, and such a disgrace to Ballyfuchsia. The idea of
not keeping a ladder in a house where the door-knobs were apt to

come off struck her as being the worst feature of the accident,
though this unexpected and truly Milesian view of the matter had

never occurred to us.
"Well, I got Miss Peabody to the dinner-party," said Benella

triumphantly, when she was laboriously unlacing my frock, later on,
"or at least I got her there before it broke up. I had to walk

every step o' the way home, and the donkey laid down four times, but
I was so nerved up I didn't care a mite. I was bound Miss Peabody

shouldn't lose her chance, after all she's done for me!"
"Her chance?" I asked, somewhat puzzled, for dinners, even Castle

dinners, are not rare in Salemina's experience.
"Yes, her chance," repeated Benella mysteriously; "you'd know well

enough what I mean, if you'd ben born and brought up in Salem,
Massachusetts!"

* * *
Copy of a letter read by Penelope O'Connor, descendant of the King

of Connaught, at the dinner of Lord and Lady Killbally at Balkilly
Castle. It needed no apology then, but in sending it to our

American friends, we were obliged to explain that though the Irish
peasants interlard their conversation with saints, angels, and

devils, and use the name of the Virgin Mary, and even the Almighty,
with, to our ears, undue familiarity and frequency, there is no

profane or irreverent intent. They are instinctively religious, and
it is only because they feel on terms of such friendly intimacy with

the powers above that they speak of them so often.
At the Widdy Mullarkey's,

Knockarney House, Ballyfuchsia,
County Kerry.

Och! musha bedad, man alive, but it's a fine counthry over here, and
it bangs all the jewel of a view we do be havin' from the windys,

begorra! Knockarney House is in a wild, remoted place at the back
of beyant, and faix we're as much alone as Robinson Crusoe on a

dissolute island; but when we do be wishful to go to the town, sure
there's ivery convaniency. There's ayther a bit of a jauntin' car

wid a skewbald pony for drivin', or we can borry the loan of Dinnis
Rooney's blind ass wid the plain cart, or we can just take a fut in

a hand and leg it over the bog. Sure it's no great thing to go do,
but only a taste of divarsion like, though it's three good Irish

miles an' powerful hot weather, with niver a dhrop of wet these
manny days. It's a great old spring we're havin' intirely; it has

raison to be proud of itself, begob!
Paddy, the gossoon that drives the car (it's a gossoon we call him,

but faix he stands five fut nine in his stockin's, when he wears
anny)--Paddy, as I'm afther tellin' you, lives in a cabin down below

the knockaun, a thrifle back of the road. There's a nate stack of
turf fornint it, and a pitaty pot sets beside the doore, wid the

hins and chuckens rachin' over into it like aigles tryin' to swally
the smell.

Across the way there does be a bit of sthrame that's fairly shtiff
wid troutses in the saison, and a growth of rooshes under the edge

lookin' that smooth and greeny it must be a pleasure intirely to the
grand young pig and the goat that spinds their time by the side of

it when out of doores, which is seldom. Paddy himself is raggetty
like, and a sight to behould wid the daylight shinin' through the

ould coat on him; but he's a dacint spalpeen, and sure we'd be lost
widout him. His mother's a widdy woman with nine moidtherin'

childer, not countin' the pig an' the goat, which has aquil
advantages. It's nine she has livin', she says, and four slapin' in

the beds o' glory; and faix I hope thim that's in glory is quieter
than the wans that's here, for the divil is busy wid thim the whole

of the day. Here's wan o' thim now makin' me as onaisy as an ould
hin on a hot griddle, slappin' big sods of turf over the dike, and

ruinatin' the timpers of our poulthry. We've a right to be
lambastin' thim this blessed minute, the crathurs; as sure as eggs

is mate, if they was mine they'd sup sorrow wid a spoon of grief,
before they wint to bed this night!

Mistress Colquhoun, that lives at Ardnagreena on the road to the
town, is an iligant lady intirely, an' she's uncommon frindly, may

the peace of heaven be her sowl's rist! She's rale charitable-like
an' liberal with the whativer, an' as for Himself, sure he's the

darlin' fine man! He taches the dead-and-gone languages in the
grand sates of larnin', and has more eddication and comperhinson

than the whole of County Kerry rowled together.
Then there's Lord and Lady Killbally; faix there's no iliganter

family on this counthryside, and they has the beautiful quality
stoppin' wid thim, begob! They have a pew o' their own in the

church, an' their coachman wears top-boots wid yaller chimbleys to
thim. They do be very openhanded wid the eatin' and the drinkin',

and it bangs Banagher the figurandyin' we do have wid thim! So you
see Ould Ireland is not too disthressful a counthry to be divartin'

ourselves in, an' we have our healths finely, glory be to God!
Well, we must be shankin' off wid ourselves now to the Colquhouns',

where they're wettin' a dhrop o' tay for us this mortial instant.
It's no good for yous to write to us here, for we'll be quittin' out

o' this before the letther has a chanst to come; though sure it can
folly us as we're jiggin' along to the north.

Don't be thinkin' that you've shlipped hould of our ricollections,
though the breadth of the ocean say's betune us. More power to your

elbow! May your life be aisy, and may the heavens be your bed!
Penelope O'Connor Beresford.

Part Third--Ulster.
Chapter XVII. The Glens of Antrim.

'Silent, O Moyle,* be the roar of thy water;
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose;

While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lovely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.'

Thomas Moore.
* The sea between Erin and Alban (Ireland and Scotland) was called

in the olden time the Sea of Moyle, from the Moyle, or Mull, of
Cantire.

Sorley Boy Hotel,
Glens of Antrim.

We are here for a week, in the neighbourhood of Cushendun, just to
see a bit of the north-eastern corner of Erin, where, at the end of

the nineteenth century, as at the beginning of the seventeenth, the
population is almost exclusively Catholic and Celtic. The Gaelic

Sorley Boy is, in Irish state papers, Carolus Flavus--yellow-haired
Charles--the most famous of the Macdonnell fighters; the one who,

when recognised by Elizabeth as Lord of the Route, and given a
patent for his estates, burned the document before his retainers,

swearing that what had been won by the sword should never be held by
the sheepskin. Cushendun was one of the places in our literary

pilgrimage, because of its association with that charming Irish
poetess and good glenswoman who calls herself 'Moira O'Neill.'

This country of the Glens, east of the river Bann, escaped
'plantation,' and that accounts for its Celtic character. When the

grand Ulster chieftains, the O'Donnells and the O'Neills of Donegal,
went under, the third great house of Ulster, the 'Macdonnells of the

Isles,' was more fortunate, and, thanks to its Scots blood, found
favour with James I. It was a Macdonnell who was created first Earl

of Antrim, and given a 'grant of the Glens and the Route, from the
Curran of Larne to the Cutts of Coleraine.' Ballycastle is our

nearest large town, and its great days were all under the
Macdonnells, where, in the Franciscan abbey across the bay, it is

said the ground 'literally heaves with Clandonnell dust.' Here are
buried those of the clan who perished at the hands of Shane O'Neill-

-Shane the Proud, who signed himself 'Myself O'Neill,' and who has
been called 'the shaker of Ulster'; here, too, are those who fell in

the great fight at Slieve-an-Aura up in Glen Shesk, when the
Macdonnells finally routed the older lords, the M'Quillans. A

clansman once went to the Countess of Antrim to ask the lease of a
farm.

"Another Macdonnell?" asked the countess. "Why, you must all be
Macdonnells in the Low Glens!"

"Ay," said the man. "Too many Macdonnells now, but not one too many


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