ON the road between Passage and Cork there
is an old mansion called Ronayne’s Court.
It may be easily known from the
stack of chimneys and the gable-ends, which are to be seen, look at it which
way you will. Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife, Margaret Gould,
kept house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece, on
which is carved their arms.
They were a mighty worthy couple, and had but one
son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than the King of Spain.
Immediately on his smelling the cold air
of this world the child sneezed, and it was naturally taken to be a good sign
of having a clear head; but the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly
amazing; for on the very first day a primer was put into his hand, he tore out
the A, B, C page, and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath his notice. No
wonder, then, that both father and mother were proud of their heir, who gave
such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they call it in that part of the
world, genus.
One morning, however, Master Phil, who was
then just seven years old, was missing, and no one could tell what had become
of him. Servants were sent in all directions to seek for him, on horseback and
on foot, but they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance
altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it produced
them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and Mrs. Ronayne
having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of their lost child.
There lived, at this time, near
Carigaline, one Robert Kelly, a blacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a
handy man, and his abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the
lasses of the neighbourhood; for, independent of shoeing horses, which he did
to great perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for the
young women, sung Arthur O’Bradley at their weddings, and was so good -
natured a fellow at a christening that he was gossip to half the country
round.
Now it happened that Robin had a dream
himself, and young Philip Ronayne appeared to him in it at the dead hour of
the night. Robin thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse,
and that he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon MacMahon, who had
carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the rock.
"The seven years - my time of service — are clean out,
Robin," said he, "and if you release me this night, I will be the
making of you for ever after."
"And how will I know," said
Robin — cunning enough, even in his sleep — " but this is all a
dream?"
"Take that," said the boy,
"for a token " — and at the word the white horse struck out with
one of his hind-legs, and gave poor Robin such a kick in the forehead that,
thinking he was a dead man, he roared as loud as he could after his brains,
and woke up calling a thousand murders. He found himself in bed, but he had
the mark of the blow, the regular print of a horseshoe upon his forehead as
red as blood; and Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the
dream of any other person, did not know what to think of his own.
Robin was well acquainted with the
Giant’s Stairs, as, indeed, who is not that knows the harbour? They consist
of great masses of rock, which, piled one above another, rise like a flight of
steps, from very deep water, against the bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are
they badly suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to
stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the space of a
mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats the giant MacMahon was said to
have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and the common tradition of the
country placed his dwelling within the cliff, up whose side the stairs led.
Such was the impression which the dream
made on Robin that he determines to put its truth to the test. It occurred to
him, however, before setting out on this adventure that a plough-iron may be
no bad companion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down
argument, having, on more occasions than one, settled a little disagreement
very quietly; so, putting one on his shoulder, off he marched in the cool of
the evening through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk’s Glen) to Monkstown. Here an
old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name) lived, who, on hearing Robin’s
dream, promised him the use of his skiff, and moreover, offered to assist in
rowing it to the Giant’s Stairs.
After a supper, which was of the best,
they embarked. It was a beautiful, still night, and the little boat glided
swiftly along. The regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor,
and sometimes the voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe,
alone broke the quietness of the land and sea and sky.
The tide was in their favour, and in a few
minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars under the dark shadow of the
Giant’s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously for the entrance to the Giant’s
Palace, which, it was said, may be found by anyone seeking it at midnight; but
no such entrance could he see. His impatience had hurried him there before
that time, and after waiting a considerable apace in a state of suspense not
to be described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his
companion: "Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming here at
all on the strength of a dream."
"And whose doing is it," said
Tom, "but your own?"
At the moment be spoke they perceived a
faint glimmering light to proceed from the cliff which gradually increased
until a porch big enough for a king’s palace unfolded itself almost on a
level with the water. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and
Robin Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and a
stout heart.
Wild and strange was that entrance, the
whole of which appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so
strangely each with the other that it was impossible to define any — the
chin of one formed the nose of another — what appeared to be. a fixed and
stern eye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the
lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin allowed
himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific they became;
and the stony expression of this crowd of faces assumed a savage ferocity as
his imagination converted feature after feature into a different shape and
character.
Losing the twilight, in which these
indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and devious passage,
whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the rock: was about to close
upon him and swallow him up alive for ever.
Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid.
Robin, Robin," said he, " if you were a fool for coming here, what
in the name of fortune are you now?" But as before, he had scarcely
spoken when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of the
distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of the question,
for so many turnings and windings were in the passage, that he considered he
had but little chance of making his way back.
He therefore proceeded towards the bit of
light, and came at last into a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung
the solitary lamp that had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the
single lamp afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures
seated round a massive stone table as if in serious deliberation, but no word
disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head of this table
sat Mahon MacMahon himself, whose majestic beard had taken root, and in the
course of ages grown into the stone slab. He was the first who perceived
Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his long beard from out the huge lump
of rock in such haste and with so sudden a jerk, that it was shattered into a
thousand pieces.
"What seek you?" he demanded, in
a voice of thunder.
"I come," answered Robin, with
as much boldness as he could put on — for his heart was almost fainting
within him — " I come," said be, "to claim Philip Ronayne,
whose time of service is out this night."
"And who sent you here?" said
the giant.
"Twas of my own accord I came,"
said Robin.
"Then you must single him out from
among my pages," said the giant; "and if you fix on the wrong one,
your life is the forfeit. Follow me." He led Robin into a hall of vast
extent and filled with lights, along either side of which were rows of
beautiful children all apparently seven years old, and none beyond that age,
dressed in green, and everyone exactly dressed alike.
"Here," said Mahon, "you
are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will; but remember, I give but one
choice."
Robin was sadly perplexed, for there were
hundreds upon hundreds of children, and he had no very clear recollection of
the boy he sought. But he walked along the hall by the side of Mahon as if
nothing was the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at
every step, sounding louder than Robin’s own sledge battering on his anvil.
They had nearly reached the end of the
hall without speaking when Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to
make friends with the giant, determined to try what effect a few soft words
might have upon him.
"‘Tis a fine, wholesome appearance
the poor children carry," remarked Robin, "although they have been
here so long shut out from the fresh air and the blessed light of heaven.
‘Tis tenderly your honour must have reared them!"
"Aye," said the giant,
"that is true for you; so give me your hand, for you are, I believe, a
very honest fellow for a blacksmith."
Robin, at the first look, did not much
like the huge size of the hand, and therefore presented his plough-iron, which
the giant seizing, twisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had
been a potato-stalk. On seeing this, all the children set up a shout of
laughter. In the midst of their mirth, Robin thought he heard his name called;
and, all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had spoken,
crying out at the same time:
" Let me live or die for it, but this
is young Phil Ronayne !"
"It is Philip Ronayne — happy
Philip Ronayne," said his young companions; and in an instant the hall
became dark.. Crashing noises were heard, and all was in strange confusion;
but Robin held fast his prize, and found himself lying in the grey dawn of the
morning at the head of the Giant’s Stairs with the boy clasped in his arms.
Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the
story of his wonderful adventure — Passage, Monkstown, Ringaskiddy,
Seamount, Carrigaline — the whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.
"Are you quite sure, Robin, it is
young Phil Ronayne you have brought back with you?" was the regular
question; for although the boy had been seven years away, his appearance now
was just the same as on the day he was missed He had neither grown taller nor
older in look, and he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried
off as one awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.
"Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer
question," was Robin’s reply, "seeing the boy has the blue eyes of
the mother, with the foxy hair of the father, to say nothing of the purty wart
on the right side of his little nose."
However Robin Kelly may have been
questioned, the worthy couple of Ronayne’s court doubted not that be was the
deliverer of their child from the power of the Giant MacMahon, and the reward
they bestowed upon him equalled their gratitude.
Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and
he was remarkable to the day of his death for his skill in working brass and
iron, which it was believed he had learned during his seven years’
apprenticeship to the Giant Mahon MacMahon.
"And now, farewell ! the fairy
dream is o’er;
The tales my infancy had loved to hear,
Like blissful visions, fade and disappear.
Such tales Momonia’s peasants tell no more !
Vanish’d are MERMAIDS
from the sea-beat shore;
Check’d is the HEADLESS HORSEMAN’s
strange career;
FIR DARRIG’s voice no longer
mocks the ear,
Nor ROCKS bear wondrous
imprints as of yore !
Such is ‘the march of mind.’ But did the fays
(Creatures of whim — the gossamers of will)
In Ireland work such sorrow and such ill
As stormier spirits of our modern days?
Oh, land beloved ! no angry voice I raise;
My constant prayer — ’ May peace be with thee still !’ "