The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on
an island in Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no great distance
from the shore, and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the encroachments
which the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The fishermen
declare they have often seen the ruined walls of an old chapel beneath them in
the water, as they sailed over the clear green sea, of a sunny afternoon.
("The neighbouring inhabitants," says Dr.
Smith, in his History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, "show some rocks
visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the remains
of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the family of Cantillon,
the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh." p.210.)
However this may be, it is well known that the
Cantillons were, like most other Irish families, strongly attached to their
ancient burial-place; and this attachment led to the custom, when any of the
family died, of carrying the corpse to the sea-side, where the coffin was left
on the shore within reach of the tide. In the morning it had disappeared,
being, as was traditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors of the
deceased to their family tomb.
Connor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the
Cantillons by marriage. "Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of
Breintragh," as he was commonly called, and a proud man he was of the
name. Connor, be it known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its
medicinal virtues, before breakfast; and for the same reason, I suppose,
double that quantity of raw whiskey between breakfast and night, which last he
did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the barony of
Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don't think I should
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was
determined to satisfy himself about the truth of this story of the old church
under the sea: so when he heard the news of the old fellow's death, away with
him to Ardfert, where Flory was laid out in high style, and a beautiful corpse
Flory had been as jolly and as rollocking a boy in his
day as ever was stretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him.
There was all kind of entertainment and all sort of diversion at it, and no
less than three girls got husbands there - more luck to them. Every thing was
as it should be : all that side of the country, from Dingle to Tarbert, was at
the funeral. The Keen was sung long and bitterly; and, according to the family
custom, the coffin was carried to Ballyheigh strand, where it was laid upon
the shore with a prayer for the repose of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after an-other, and at
last Connor Crowe was left alone: he then pulled out his whiskey bottle, his
drop of comfort as he called it, which he required, being in grief; and down
he sat upon a big stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock, and partly
concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance of the ghostly
The evening came on mild and beautiful; he whistled an
old air which he had heard in his childhood, hoping to keep idle fears out of
his head; but the wild strain of that melody brought a thousand recollections
with it, which only made the twilight appear more pensive.
"If 't was near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my
own sweet county, I was," said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, " one
might well believe that the prisoners, who were murdered long ago, there in
the vaults under the castle, would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of
envy, for never a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin
amongst them all.
'Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations and great
mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but," continued he,
after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his companion and silent
comforter, the whiskey bottle, " didn't I know all the time well enough,
'twas the dismal sounding waves working through the cliffs and hollows of the
rocks, and fretting themselves to foam.
Oh then, Dunmore Castle, it is you
that are the gloomy looking tower on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills
behind you when one has gloomy thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a
ghost rising out of the smoke made by the kelp burners on the strand, there
is, the Lord save us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man's Lake
at midnight. Well then, any how," said Connor, after a pause,
" is it not a blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in
the face? St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm."
It was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night; no-thing was
to be seen around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which
the sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding his
frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to repent his
curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the black coffin resting
upon the white strand. His imagination gradually converted the deep moaning of
old ocean into a mournful wail for the dead, and from the shadowy recesses of
the rocks he imaged forth strange and visionary forms.
As the night advanced, Connor became weary with watching;
he caught himself more than once in the fact of nodding, when suddenly giving
his head a shake, he would look towards the black coffin. But the narrow house
of death remained unmoved before him.
It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into
the sea, when he heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became
stronger, above the heavy and monotonous roll of the sea: he listened, and
presently could distinguish a Keen, of exquisite sweetness, the notes of which
rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep murmur mingled with
and supported the strain !
The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach
the beach, and then fell into a low plaintive wail. As it ended, Connor beheld
a number of strange, and in the dim light, mysterious looking figures, emerge
from the sea, and surround the coffin, which they prepared to launch into the
" This comes of marrying with the creatures of
earth," said one of the figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.
"True," replied another, with a voice still
more fearful, "our king would never have commanded his gnawing
white-toothed waves to devour the rocky roots of the island cemetery, had not
his daughter, Durfulla, been buried there by her mortal husband !"
" But the time will come," said a third,
bending over the coffin.
"When mortal eye - our work shall spy,
And mortal ear - our dirge shall hear."
"Then," said a fourth, " our burial of the
Cantillons is at an end for ever!"
As this was spoken, the coffin was borne from the beach
by a retiring wave, and the company of sea people prepared to follow it: but
at the moment, one chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and
as motionless with fear as the stone on which he sat.
"The time is come," cried the unearthly being,
"the time is come; a human eye looks on the forms of ocean, a human ear
has heard their voices; farewell to the Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no
longer doomed to bury the dust of the earth !"
One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded
Connor Crowe, who still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their
funeral song; and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the
lamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of waters.
The coffin and the train of sea people sank over the old church-yard, and
never, since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon, have any of the family been
carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for conveyance to their rightful
burial-place, beneath the waves of the Atlantic.