Haunts of the eagle : man and wild nature in Donegal

Each story keeps the passage it was read from. Open one to read it as the scan has it, and, where the companion has written its own telling, that too. The passages are read off photographs of the page by machine, so a word here and there comes out wrong; they are kept as the reading produced them, so you can check any of them against the scan.

1. The Holy Stone of Tory and the wreck of the Wasp

   Tory Island · townland · Donegal · 1884

   On Tory Island there is a pagan 'Holy Stone,' believed to have been blessed by St. Columba, which for centuries was pointed toward approaching invaders to summon destructive storms. In September 1884 the keeper of the stone directed it at the gun-boat Wasp, which was coming to collect rents; a violent storm arose and the vessel was wrecked with all hands lost but six.

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   In Tory there is a certain ‘‘ Holy Stone”’ undoubtedly pagan in its origin, though probably blessed by St. Columba or one of his successors. For many centuries, when any invader was to be seen, the stone was pointed in the direction of his approaching fleet: instantly a great storm would break over him and he and his force were sure to be lost in the ocean. In the September of 1884 the landlord thought that it was time to collect his rents and arrears: he obtained from the government the gun-boat Wasp to aid him in that difficult and usually dangerous process. The keeper of the ‘‘Holy Stone’’ saw the Wasp approaching: he disliked her appearance and set the stone in the direction of her course. A violent storm at sea arose, the gun-boat was wrecked and all hands lost but six. This disaster happened on the 22nd of September, 1884 : the body of the luckless commander, after drifting for many days, came ashore in the stormy bay of Glencolumbkille, and lies buried in the Protestant graveyard. It is needless to add that the belief of the islanders in the virtue of the ‘‘ Holy Stone’’ was established by that tragedy upon a foundation which cannot be shaken.

   Tory has one of the most beautiful of all the Irish legends connected with it, which I shall set down as I heard it, though not in the wonderful Doric of the teller who translated it to me from the Gaelic, nor with the fine literary power of Dr. MacDevitt. One morning, it is not known how long ago, some fishermen were making their way to the sea to ply their wonted task, when they saw the body of a nun which had drifted upon a green bank just above high-water-mark. The corpse was of an unearthly beauty, the hands were folded upon the breast, and

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 73

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here on Tory Island there is a stone that the people call the Holy Stone. It is pagan in its origin, though it may have been blessed by St. Columba or one of his successors. For centuries, whenever an invader was seen, the stone was pointed in the direction of the approaching fleet. A great storm would break over the invader, and he and his force were sure to be lost in the ocean. In September of 1884 the landlord decided it was time to collect his rents and arrears. He obtained from the government the gun-boat Wasp to aid him in that difficult and usually dangerous process. The keeper of the Holy Stone saw the Wasp approaching. He disliked her appearance and set the stone in the direction of her course. A violent storm at sea arose. The gun-boat was wrecked and all hands were lost but six. The disaster happened on the 22nd of September, 1884. The body of the luckless commander, after drifting for many days, came ashore in the stormy bay of Glencolumbkille, and lies buried in the Protestant graveyard. The belief of the islanders in the virtue of the Holy Stone was established by that tragedy upon a foundation which cannot be shaken.

2. Tormore islet: samphire gathering and a tragic death

   Tormore · minor feature · Donegal

   The Tormore is a 300-foot rounded rock islet near Port on the Donegal coast, where peasants cross at low tide to gather samphire (Inula erithmoides) for medicinal and culinary use. A poor lad who crossed to gather samphire was stranded by storm tides for a week, died of hunger, and is buried on the islet in unconsecrated ground, with flowers still strewn on his grave.

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   myriads of sea-birds, some of great rarity, which find a secure nesting-place within its wrinkled crags. At low tide it is possible to cross over a shelf of slippery rocks and reach its rugged flank; but the tide returns quickly and the passage is dangerous. Many of the peasantry find their way over the treacherous shoal to gather the samphire (Inula - erithmoides), which trims the steepest crevices of the cliffs with its golden flowers. They use it for some mysterious purpose in their rustic pharmacopoeia and in some cases make a kind of pickle or sweatmeat of its sturdy stems. Near the shoulder of the Tormore is a little mound, upon which flowers are strewn by loving hands from time to time. It is said that a poor lad crossed over to gather the samphire and was prevented from returning by the high tides of a stormy week. Here he died of hunger; here he lies buried far from the peat-smoke of his native cabin in unconsecrated ground.

   It is impossible to convey more than a faint perception of the desolation of this terrific coast. Everywhere it bears abundant traces of the rude handiwork of the winds and the waves in their tempestuous fury at its supreme height. Whether the voyager turns his gaze towards perpendicular cliffs of Glen Head, or back again towards the primitive hamlet of Maghera, the jagged cliffs are alike sublime and terror-striking. Even in a so called ‘‘ flat sea’’ huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp a hundred boats. Many years ago a merry party rowed in their boat and were just entering the ‘‘ pass ’’ leading into Port, keeping time to their oars with cheerful song. Amongst them was an American lady journalist who was busily engaged in taking rapid notes, which were destined never to find their way into print. Suddenly she looked up from her notebook and exclaimed with one of those detestably inappropriate adjectives dear to a certain type of feminine mind, ‘‘ Oh, how

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 19

   As the companion tells it

   Tormore is a rounded rock islet near Port on the Donegal coast, a 300-foot crag where myriads of sea-birds find secure nesting-places within its wrinkled crags. At low tide it is possible to cross over a shelf of slippery rocks and reach its rugged flank, but the tide returns quickly and the passage is dangerous. Many of the peasantry find their way over the treacherous shoal to gather the samphire, Inula erithmoides, which trims the steepest crevices of the cliffs with its golden flowers. They use it in their rustic pharmacopoeia and in some cases make a kind of pickle or sweetmeat of its sturdy stems. Near the shoulder of the islet is a little mound, upon which flowers are strewn by loving hands from time to time. A poor lad crossed over to gather the samphire and was prevented from returning by the high tides of a stormy week. He died of hunger on the islet. He lies buried far from the peat-smoke of his native cabin, in unconsecrated ground. The coast around bears abundant traces of the rude handiwork of the winds and the waves. Even in a flat sea, huge Atlantic rollers come booming in with force enough to swamp a hundred boats. The jagged cliffs towards Glen Head and towards the hamlet of Maghera are alike sublime and terror-striking. It is impossible to convey more than a faint perception of the desolation of this terrific coast.

3. Prehistoric log-built hut discovered in Inver bog

   Inver · parish · Donegal

   Turf-cutters at Inver, near the head of Donegal Bay, unearthed a primitive two-storey log-built sleeping-hut twelve feet beneath the bog surface. A model of the hut and its wild discovery scene were housed in the Royal Irish Academy museum in Dublin.

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   Far to the east the Blue Stack Mountains cut the clear air, their red granite mass deeply purpled in the sunset and the subduing light of distance. Nearer again was Inver towards the head of Donegal Bay, where twelve feet beneath the surface of the bog a primitive log-built sleeping-hut of two stories was unearthed by the turf-cutters at their laborious toil. A model of it and the wild scene of its discovery may be seen in the museum of the Royal Irish Academy in Dublin, which contains a most remarkable and varied collection of prehistoric relics. In the dark valley immediately in front, now fired by the glories of the sinking sun, the men of old had

   38 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 17

   As the companion tells it

   As the road passes through the parish of Inver, near the head of Donegal Bay, there is a bog where turf-cutters unearthed something remarkable. Twelve feet beneath the surface, they found a primitive log-built sleeping-hut of two stories, buried in the peat. A model of the hut and the wild scene of its discovery may be seen in the museum of the Royal Irish Academy in Dublin, which holds a remarkable collection of prehistoric relics. The Blue Stack Mountains rise to the east, their red granite mass purpled in the sunset light.

4. Drowning tragedy at Port near Tormore

   Port · townland · Donegal

   A boat was overwhelmed by a mighty Atlantic breaker near Tormore, drowning a woman whose body was later found by fishermen miles away. The surviving men climbed the cliff naked to seek help, and the tragedy was still fresh in local memory when the author visited.

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   As the story was told to me amid the awful surroundings of the disaster and the scene of every detail pointed out one after another, our excellent captain Johnnie said, ‘‘ Some of them had to climb the cliff mother-naked to seek help from the people in the houses! ’’ The tragedy was quite fresh in the minds of the neighbours for miles around Port when I made that treacherous voyage, and was able to do full justice to its painful details. From point to point Johnnie told his tale with a quiet pathos matchless in its direct simplicity. He ended up with the solemn remark uttered in a hushed tone, as if he had

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   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 20

   As the companion tells it

   Close to Port, a boat was overwhelmed by a mighty Atlantic breaker near Tormore, and a woman drowned. Her body was found later by fishermen miles away. The surviving men climbed the cliff naked to seek help from people in the houses. When the author visited, the tragedy was still fresh in the minds of neighbours for miles around. A captain called Johnnie told the tale point by point, with what the author calls a quiet pathos matchless in its direct simplicity. He ended with a solemn remark, spoken in a hushed tone, as if he had seen it all himself.

5. Murder of Inspector Martin at Derrybeg Chapel

   near Derrybeg · town · Donegal

   Inspector Martin attempted to arrest Father MacFadden outside Derrybeg Chapel just after High Mass on a Sunday, brandishing a cutlass. The congregation, believing their priest was about to be attacked, fell upon the officer with blackthorn sticks and beat him to death, while Father MacFadden escaped into the priest's house.

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   In this way we trotted briskly along the winding road, he to the fine hotel at Gweedore, I to my humbler but not less comfortable hostelry at Crolly Bridge. We soon passed the handsome Catholic Chapel of Dunlewey, which was then along with that at Derrybeg under the charge of the once famous agitator Father MacFadden. So obnoxious was he to the British government, that Inspector Martin determined to take him dead or alive. With wonderful folly on the part of one who ought to have known the ways of the Irish better, he went one Sunday to the Chapel of Derrybeg to take the priest just as he was coming out after having celebrated High Mass. The Inspector had drawn his cutlass and was brandishing it in his right hand, while he laid hold of Father MacFadden’s collar with his left. The Irish crowd thought that he was about to cut down their beloved priest, and fell upon him with their blackthorns. Father MacFadden escaped into the priest’s house, while the unfortunate officer was beaten to death.. Had he had the wisdom to check the throng, ‘he might have saved the life of the Inspector and escaped arrest himself.

   The driver told me with the most solemn assurance of its truth, that an old man living near Cashelnagore, a few days before the murder took place, had had a dream in which he saw the Police Inspector battered and dying outside the Chapel of Derrybeg. This dream had been taken down by one of the priests, and either by coincidence or some other unknown means had reached a most remarkable fulfilment. Just as he had done his tale, I saw him look quickly towards the Chapel door; then he touched his hat with deep reverence not unmixed with fear. ‘‘ Sure it’s his riverence,’’ was all that he said. Glancing in the same direction I saw a little wiry-looking man

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 9

   As the companion tells it

   The road passes through Derrybeg in Donegal. Father MacFadden was the priest at Derrybeg, in charge of the Catholic chapel there and the handsome one at Dunlewey. He was known as an agitator, so obnoxious to the British government that Inspector Martin determined to take him dead or alive. With what the source calls wonderful folly, Martin went one Sunday to the chapel to seize the priest just as he came out after celebrating High Mass. He had drawn his cutlass and was brandishing it in his right hand, while he laid hold of Father MacFadden's collar with his left. The crowd thought he was about to cut down their beloved priest, and fell upon him with their blackthorns. Father MacFadden escaped into the priest's house, while the unfortunate officer was beaten to death. The driver who told this story said with solemn assurance that an old man living near Cashelnagore, a few days before the murder took place, had a dream in which he saw the Police Inspector battered and dying outside the chapel at Derrybeg. This dream was taken down by one of the priests, and reached what was called a most remarkable fulfilment. Just as the driver finished his tale, he looked quickly towards the chapel door, then touched his hat with deep reverence not unmixed with fear. "Sure it's his riverence," was all he said.

6. Balor legend and the naming of the Poisoned Glen

   Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

   The legend tells how MacKineely killed his grandfather Balor by piercing his evil eye with a spear while Balor hid beneath peat in the glen between Slieve Snacht and Dooish. Balor's poison spirted forth and flooded the glen, giving it the name 'Poisoned Glen' ever after.

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   the glen lying between Slieve Snacht and Deo The entrance to this lonely corrie is almost closed by a lofty wall of quartzite, which is deeply scored by wind and weather. Behind this wall lay Balor snugly hidden beneath a great pile of peat, while MacKineely and his brave men kept a close watch on the outside. Climbing up this wall he caught sight of a slight movement in the peat: at once he thrust his spear into the spot, pierced the evil eye of his erandfather and thus put an end to his life. Instantly the poison spirted forth, flooding the glen and deeply scoring the wall behind which the old man was hidden. From henceforth the glen has been known as the ‘‘ Poisoned Glen,’’ a name which it bears at the present time. Such is the legend told me by the old gardener, the conclusion of which differs from the ordinary story.

   The glen itself is wildly and grandly beautiful: on one side it is flanked by all but perpendicular cliffs gleaming white and ascending to the height of at least fourteen hundred feet. In one corner a tumultuous stream leaps down the granite boulders from which it was born, which vainly strives to hinder its headlong course to quieter quarters at the bottom of the glen. On the other side rises a rugged slope of mingled heather, bent-grass, crumbling rock, choice flowers, and thickets of dwarf furze, watered by a thousand tiny rills, and ascending to the top of Dooish. The bottom of the glen itself enforces wary walking: for the most part it is one great shaking bog watered by the stream which flows into Dunlewey Lough. Tufts of heather, occasional spars of

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 4

   As the companion tells it

   This is the Poisoned Glen, the valley lying between Slieve Snacht and Dooish. The old legend says Balor hid here, snugly hidden beneath a great pile of peat behind a lofty wall of quartzite, while MacKineely and his brave men kept close watch on the outside. Climbing up the wall, MacKineely caught sight of a slight movement in the peat. At once he thrust his spear into the spot and pierced the evil eye of his grandfather, putting an end to his life. Instantly the poison spirted forth, flooding the glen and deeply scoring the wall behind which the old man was hidden. From henceforth the glen has been known as the Poisoned Glen. An old gardener told this legend, and noted its conclusion differs from the ordinary story. The glen itself is wildly and grandly beautiful. On one side it is flanked by all but perpendicular cliffs, gleaming white, ascending to the height of at least fourteen hundred feet. In one corner a tumultuous stream leaps down granite boulders, vainly striving to hinder its headlong course to quieter quarters at the bottom. On the other side rises a rugged slope of mingled heather, bent-grass, crumbling rock, choice flowers, and thickets of dwarf furze, watered by a thousand tiny rills, ascending to the top of Dooish. The bottom of the glen is mostly one great shaking bog, watered by the stream which flows into Dunlewey Lough.

7. Cromlechs near Cloghmore

   Cloghmore · townland · Mayo

   Men of old fought battles and laid their heroic dead under huge cromlechs in the dark valley near Cloghmore. Some of these megalithic tombs still remain, marking an area once covered in fir-trees and inhabited by wild animals including the broad-horned elk.

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   fought their relentless battles, and laid their heroic dead under the huge cromlechs, some of which still remain in the neighbourhood of the Cloughmore. In those earlier days the bog would be covered with fir-trees, the bare roots of which still pierce the surface of the peat, and many wild animals, including the broad-horned elk, had their home in the woodland or rocky caves.

   Reluctantly I left the breezy summit with its hermitages and holy well, took my road along the “ Pilgrims’ Way ”’ and dropped easily down to the northern margin of Teelin Port. To the left was a tiny streamlet rippling beneath a fairy forest of the royal fern (Osmunda regalis); to the right was the muddy shore of the little inlet left as high and dry as might be by the retiring tide. The dark sand was cut by the narrow salmon-stream, which cleft its winding way through rushes and saltwort to the open sea. On the farther side of the stream an object in the distance bearing some resemblance to a big bird arrested my attention, and I drew near stepping as silently as a cat upon hunting intent. The road was lifted a good height above the muddy beach to avoid the rare floods of stormy weather, so that I was well able to see, though the mud prevented me from crossing over to the margin of the river. Once more, and for the last time, I saw the golden eagle, but not the same bird as I had seen before. This one was a shade darker in the plumage, though fired along the back by the ruddy evening light, nor was the golden hue of the head and neck so clearly marked. It was considerably larger than the other, and at first I fancied that it was the sea eagle, so that I looked carefully for the white tail, which is its distinguishing mark. But I found on closer observation that it was the female of the golden eagle and almost certainly the mate of the bird which I had seen flying along the face of Slieve Liag.

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 17

   As the companion tells it

   Somewhere around here, men of old fought their relentless battles and laid their heroic dead under huge cromlechs. Some of these tombs still remain close to Cloghmore. In those earlier days the bog would have been covered with fir-trees, and the bare roots of those trees still pierce the surface of the peat. Many wild animals had their home in the woodland or the rocky caves, including the broad-horned elk.

8. Destruction of Lough Derg monastery by Sir William Stewart

   near Saint's Island · townland · Clare · 1603–1625

   Under James I, Sir William Stewart came in force to Saint's Island, pulled down the monastery, seized its treasure, destroyed all trace of the monks, and threw sacred relics into the lake. This act of Protestant vandalism caused Lough Derg to be deserted for a time by Irish pilgrims devoted to their ancient faith.

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   At the present there are quite as many pilgrims to Lough Derg as in the days of James I. Sorely troubled for the spiritual welfare of the souls of his Catholic subjects in Ireland, that sturdy Calvinist sent Sir William Stewart, amongst other statesmen, to see to them at the beginning of his reign. This dour Protestant, realizing the possible danger of the great concourse of people visiting this lonely lake, came in force to the Saint’s Island, pulled down the monastery, laid hold of its treasure, destroyed all trace of the monks, and threw the sacred relics into the lake. That was the English way of conciliating the Irish, who were devotedly attached to their ancient faith. By such acts of honest vandalism they sowed the seeds of the frequent rebellions which disturbed their rule, the results of which have been felt right down to our own time. How long Lough Derg was deserted after this drastic treatment of its sacred shrine, it is not easy to say: but for a time Irishmen ceased to frequent its hallowed shores.

   But they did not forget their ancient attachment to the place and the associations which it recalled to their minds. Every spot on which St. Patrick had set his foot became consecrated ground to them. Hence, in due time, the narrow rock of what is to-day called ‘‘ Station Island’”’ was crowned with buildings forming a sort of hostel for the pilgrims, who soon began to flock thither in great numbers. Most of the original exercises were resumed, except the

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 77

   As the companion tells it

   Near here on Saint's Island, a monastery once stood, until Sir William Stewart came to pull it down. Under James I, that king was sorely troubled for the spiritual welfare of the souls of his Catholic subjects in Ireland. He was a sturdy Calvinist, and at the beginning of his reign he sent Stewart, among other statesmen, to see to them. This dour Protestant saw the great concourse of people visiting this lonely lake as a possible danger. He came in force to the island, pulled down the monastery, laid hold of its treasure, destroyed all trace of the monks, and threw the sacred relics into the lake. The book calls this, in its words, "the English way of conciliating the Irish," who were devotedly attached to their ancient faith. By such acts of honest vandalism they sowed the seeds of the frequent rebellions which disturbed their rule, the results of which have been felt right down to our own time. How long Lough Derg was deserted after this drastic treatment of its sacred shrine, it is not easy to say, but for a time Irishmen ceased to frequent its hallowed shores. They did not forget their ancient attachment to the place and the associations it recalled. Every spot on which St. Patrick had set his foot became consecrated ground to them. In due time the narrow rock of what is today called Station Island was crowned with buildings forming a sort of hostel for the pilgrims, who soon began to flock there in great numbers.

9. Four Masters compile the Annals of Ireland at Donegal Abbey

   Donegal · town · Donegal · 1632–1636

   In the early days of 1632, the Four Masters came to the abbey at Donegal bearing a rare collection of Irish manuscripts and built a homely cottage amid the roofless walls. By mid-1636 they had compiled the Annals of Ireland, one of the most valuable historical works of its kind in Europe.

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   Hither, in the early days of 1632, came the ‘* Four Masters,’’ bearing with them a rare collection of Irish manuscripts of many kinds and various dates. Ancient chronicles penned by the monks of the earlier centuries of the Christian Church, heroic poems and traditions of the legends of their race, written records of many a hero and many a saint, perhaps, too, examples of bardic poetry, had been brought together at the cost of great labour and much money, chiefly by Michael O’Clery himself, the leader and inspirer of the rest. Amid the roofless walls the faithful company reared a homely cottage, differing little from those of the peasants around them, where by the middle of 1636 they had compiled perhaps the most valuable historical work of its kind in Europe. It was entitled ‘‘ The Annals of Ireland,’’ and is now generally known as ‘‘ The Annals of the Four Masters.’’ Summer and winter alike, amid storm and calm, they worked at their self-imposed task, pausing only to pray, sleep, eat and drink. The compilation which they made in a manuscript of two parts is one of the most prized possessions of the Royal Irish Academy, to which it has found its way by happy fortune, and where it rests with many other memorials of the learning and piety of Ireland in the far past.

   What then can be said of the ‘‘ Four Masters ”’ themselves, what manner of men were they, and how were they fitted for the accomplishment of their patriotic purpose? It will suffice my object to

   Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 106

   As the companion tells it

   As the road brings you through Donegal, this town holds the remains of an abbey where one of the great works of Irish history was made. In the early days of 1632, the Four Masters came here bearing a rare collection of Irish manuscripts of many kinds and various dates. Ancient chronicles penned by the monks of the earlier centuries of the Christian Church, heroic poems and traditions of the legends of their race, written records of many a hero and many a saint, and perhaps examples of bardic poetry, had been brought together at the cost of great labour and much money, chiefly by Michael O'Clery himself, the leader and inspirer of the rest. Amid the roofless walls of the abbey, the faithful company reared a homely cottage differing little from those of the peasants around them. Summer and winter alike, amid storm and calm, they worked at their self-imposed task, pausing only to pray, sleep, eat and drink. By the middle of 1636, they had compiled perhaps the most valuable historical work of its kind in Europe. It was entitled "The Annals of Ireland," and is now generally known as "The Annals of the Four Masters." The compilation they made, in a manuscript of two parts, is one of the most prized possessions of the Royal Irish Academy, where it rests with many other memorials of the learning and piety of Ireland in the far past.

10. Imprisonment and winter escape from Dublin Castle

    Dublin · city · Dublin · 1592

    Red Hugh O'Donnell and two young O'Neils were held prisoner in Dublin for three years. In the winter of 1592, after Lord Deputy Fitzwilliam relaxed his vigilance, O'Donnell and the O'Neils escaped through the common sewer of the castle into deep snow and bitter cold.

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    Seizing upon the opportunity, the ‘‘ Red Hugh,”’ with two of the young O’Neils, once more escaped from the prison through the common sewer of the castle. One of the O’Neils in the darkness strayed away from his companions and apparently was retaken. O’Donnell with the other found a guide who proved faithful to them: lightly clad as they were the two youths sought to find their way through the bitter winter weather to the friendly fortress of Hugh O’Byrne in the wild Glen Malure. The roads in County Wicklow at that time were not wellmade and easily passable as they are at the present time, and the hardship of the journey seemed likely to make an end of the youths. After struggling over pathless wilds they at length sank down utterly worn out on the winter snow. The guide, being cast in a stronger mould, hastened forward to summon “help: in the end he reached O’Byrne’s castle, who at once sent out men to aid the all but lifeless fugitives. When they were found, ‘‘ their bodies were already covered with white-bordered shrouds of hailstones, freezing around them, and their light clothes adhered to their skin, so that covered as they were with the snow, it did not appear to the men who had arrived that they were human beings at all, for they found no life in their members, but just as if they were dead.’”’ That is a graphic passage in the story of the winter-flight of the two young noblemen, told in the simplest language and under the influence of intense emotion. O’Neil was not strong enough to survive exposure so long, and cold so extreme: the moment that he was lifted from the ground he fell back into the arms of his supporters and breathed his last. Thus a further cause was added to O’Donnell’s hatred of England

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 113

    As the companion tells it

    Dublin, a city the road passes through or near, was where Red Hugh O'Donnell and two of the young O'Neils were held prisoner. In the winter of 1592, after Lord Deputy Fitzwilliam relaxed his vigilance, O'Donnell seized the chance. The three youths escaped through the common sewer of the castle. In the darkness one of the O'Neils strayed from his companions and was apparently retaken. O'Donnell and the remaining O'Neil found a guide who proved faithful. Lightly clad as they were, the two set out through bitter winter weather, seeking the friendly fortress of Hugh O'Byrne in the wild Glen Malure. The roads in County Wicklow were not well made, and the hardship of the journey seemed likely to make an end of them. After struggling over pathless wilds they sank down, utterly worn out, on the winter snow. The guide, stronger than the youths, hurried on to summon help. He reached O'Byrne's castle, and O'Byrne at once sent men out to aid the fugitives. When they were found, the words of the source say their bodies were already covered with white-bordered shrouds of hailstones, freezing around them, and their light clothes adhered to their skin, so that covered as they were with the snow, it did not appear to the men who had arrived that they were human beings at all, for they found no life in their members, but just as if they were dead. O'Neil was not strong enough to survive exposure so long, and cold so extreme. The moment he was lifted from the ground he fell back into the arms of his supporters and breathed his last. Thus a further cause was added to O'Donnell's hatred of England.

11. Destruction and sacrilege at Donegal Abbey

    Donegal · town · Donegal · 1600–1601

    The abbey was destroyed by fire in 1600-1 during a siege. Later, Oliver Lambert, English Governor of Connacht, seized its chalices and vestments, using them for profane purposes and leaving the abbey ruined.

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    he spare them in his reforming zeal. Thus the once stately abbey with its noble buildings and its priceless stained glass was left roofless and ruined, its only choristers the wild winds, the murmuring waters, and the shilling sea-mews. Rory O’Donnell, some years later, attempted to restore it, but failed in his endeavour: so it remains much as_ Oliver Lambert left it, though time has added his mordant tooth to the destruction of the fire.

    The hallowed ruins stand in a lovely and sequestered nook: on the opposite shore of the inlet the green woodland of the ‘‘ Donegal Banks ’’ waves over its secluded path, the delight of children and the resting-place of tired townsfolk. The outer wall of the sacred enclosure hangs over the pebbled beach, along which the advancing or retreating tide lazily rolls its murmurous waters. The mingled clamour of rooks and starlings, the melodious music of many lesser birds, the solemn sobbing of the gentle winds of heaven now chant their matins where the psalmody of the monks was heard of old, the sweet air seasoned by the salt of the sea breathes freshly where once clouds of incense rose to the vaulted roof. Yet loving memory lingers amid its mouldering arches, calling forth from the past bright pictures of its former glories, peopling the vacant aisles with the forms of mitred abbots and quiet monks, of stately chieftains and stern English commanders. Last and least, like the clown at the end of a pantomime, comes Oliver Lambert drinking profane healths to his sovereign from the consecrated chalices, while shuddering Catholics look on at the blasphemous sacrilege.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 105

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Donegal, you are near the ruins of an old abbey that was burned in 1600 or 1601, during a siege. The fire left it roofless and ruined. The abbey once had noble buildings and priceless stained glass. All of that was lost. Rory O'Donnell tried to restore it, some years later, but he failed. So it remains much as Oliver Lambert left it. Lambert was the English Governor of Connacht. He seized the abbey's consecrated chalices and vestments and used them for profane purposes. The book says he drank profane healths to his sovereign from the consecrated chalices, while shuddering Catholics looked on at the blasphemous sacrilege. The ruins stand in a sequestered nook by an inlet. On the opposite shore, the green woodland of the Donegal Banks waves over its secluded path. The outer wall of the sacred enclosure hangs over a pebbled beach, where the tide rolls its waters in and out. Rooks and starlings, lesser birds, and the winds now chant where the monks' psalmody was once heard. The salt sea air blows where clouds of incense once rose to the vaulted roof. Time has added its own tooth to the destruction the fire began. The forms of mitred abbots and quiet monks, of stately chieftains and stern English commanders, are gone from the vacant aisles. Last of all comes Lambert, with his sacrilege.

12. Kidnapping of Red Hugh O'Donnell at Rathmullan

    Rathmullan · town · Donegal

    Red Hugh O'Donnell was visiting his friend MacSwyne at Rathmullen Castle on Lough Swilly when a ship purporting to be from Spain with a cargo of wine appeared in the harbour. The captain invited O'Donnell and companions aboard for a banquet, then set sail and carried them off as prisoners of the English Lord Deputy Sir John Perrott.

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    In’ those days there was a considerable commerce between Spain and Ireland, as may be seen in the very buildings of Galway, perhaps most notably in Lynch’s Castle, which has a_ distinctly Spanish appearance. It happened that O’Donnell, with a few young friends, was paying a visit to his old friend MacSwyne of Rathmullen Castle on Lough Swilly, when a ship purporting to be from Spain with a cargo of wine aboard was reported to have made its appearance in the harbour. The castellan at once commanded large purchases to be made; neither then nor now was good wine ever unwelcome to the Irishman’s palate. With much courtesy the captain sent back word that he had only a small quantity left, but that he would be highly honoured if the noble company would come on board and taste his wine. Without a thought of treachery the ‘‘ Red Hugh ”’ with some of his friends, including two of the young O’Neils, sons of the famous Earl of Tyrone, accepted the crafty invitation and were soon busily engaged in cheerful converse and an elegant banquet provided by the captain.

    In the midst of this pleasant occupation for some reason the young man looked up and saw that the ship was making sail, and had already moved far from the land. He soon came to the conclusion that he had been betrayed by his own trustful spirit : but nothing was left for him save to watch the course of events and endure in patience. Gradually

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 112

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Rathmullan in Donegal, on Lough Swilly, you are passing the place where Red Hugh O'Donnell was kidnapped. In those days there was considerable commerce between Spain and Ireland. O'Donnell, with a few young friends, was paying a visit to his old friend MacSwyne of Rathmullen Castle on Lough Swilly, when a ship purporting to be from Spain with a cargo of wine aboard was reported to have made its appearance in the harbour. The castellan at once commanded large purchases to be made. With much courtesy the captain sent back word that he had only a small quantity of wine left, but that he would be highly honoured if the noble company would come on board and taste his wine. Without a thought of treachery, Red Hugh, with some of his friends, including two of the young O'Neills, sons of the famous Earl of Tyrone, accepted the crafty invitation and were soon busily engaged in cheerful converse and an elegant banquet provided by the captain. In the midst of this pleasant occupation, for some reason the young man looked up and saw that the ship was making sail, and had already moved far from the land. He soon came to the conclusion that he had been betrayed by his own trustful spirit, but nothing was left for him save to watch the course of events and endure in patience.

13. O'Donnell blood-red hand prophecy at Lough Akibbon abbey

    Lough Akibbon · lake or lakes · Donegal

    Within the abbey near Lough Akibbon lies the monumental slab of an early O'Donnell chieftain carved with the 'blood-red hand' badge. A prophecy foretold that the first prince to touch the shore of Tyrconnell would rule it; the youthful O'Donnell cut off his right hand and flung it upon the beach to fulfill the prophecy. Many peasantry now call the badge 'the donkey's foot.'

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    Within the building is the monumental slab of one of the early O’Donnell chieftains, carved with the ‘ blood-red hand,’’ which was the badge of their race. It had been foretold to a number of young princes that the one who first touched its shore should rule over Tyrconnell. As the boat drew near to land, the youthful O’Donnell cut off his right hand and flung it upon the beach, so that the prophecy was fulfilled in his person. Many of the peasantry show grave disrespect for the badge of their former chieftains; not a few of them call it ‘‘ the donkey’s foot,’’ though their imagination outruns any real resemblance. Behind the abbey is a very ancient graveyard, in which many others of this once famous family have been laid to rest. Near the road in front are two rude crosses, each cut out of a single stone, such as might have come from Columbkille’s own hand. They are much battered, and one of them has lost an arm; but they are reverenced none the less by the passers-by. |

    At Temple Douglas, some seven miles away along the road to Letterkenny, still stand the battered ruins of a little thirteenth or fourteenth century abbey, so small that they seldom tempt the pilgrim to Gweedore to pause for a moment to inspect them. Yet the mouldering church has a fine window of two round-headed lights, the outer mullions of which end in a Gothic arch, while over them and between their tops is a light shaped not unlike the ace of spades. The effect of the whole is singularly graceful, and not common in that part of the country. On the outside, almost facing the window but at some distance, is a curious fragment of wall densely covered with ivy and creepers, which may be a bit of the original building. To-day a seat is set under the leafage, where he who cares may sit and meditate on the past. Many noteworthy tombs are to be found in the untidy

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 86

    As the companion tells it

    Lough Akibbon in Donegal holds the ruins of an abbey. Within the building is the monumental slab of one of the early O'Donnell chieftains, carved with the blood-red hand, which was the badge of their race. It had been foretold to a number of young princes that the one who first touched its shore should rule over Tyrconnell. As the boat drew near to land, the youthful O'Donnell cut off his right hand and flung it upon the beach, so that the prophecy was fulfilled in his person. Many of the peasantry show grave disrespect for the badge of their former chieftains. Not a few of them call it the donkey's foot, though their imagination outruns any real resemblance. Behind the abbey is a very ancient graveyard, in which many others of this once famous family have been laid to rest. Near the road in front are two rude crosses, each cut out of a single stone, such as might have come from Columbkille's own hand. They are much battered, and one of them has lost an arm, but they are reverenced none the less by the passers-by. At Temple Douglas, some 7 miles away along the road to Letterkenny, still stand the battered ruins of a little 13th or 14th century abbey, so small that they seldom tempt the pilgrim to Gweedore to pause. Yet the mouldering church has a fine window of two round-headed lights, the outer mullions of which end in a Gothic arch, while over them is a light shaped not unlike the ace of spades. The effect is singularly graceful, and not common in that part of the country.

14. O'Donnell inauguration ceremony at Doon Rock

    Doon Rock · rock or rocks · Donegal

    The O'Donnell chieftains were inaugurated atop the Rock of Doon using a flat stone bearing footprints. The abbot handed the chieftain a white rod, symbolising his pledge to administer justice purely, while clansmen surrounded him and the crowd below gave joyful cries.

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    At Kilmacrenan Abbey, not far away, was kept for centuries a large flat stone with the prints of a pair of feet upon it, either produced by the hand of man or by a freak of Nature. On this stone the O’Donnell chieftain was inaugurated by a successor of St. Columba; the marks upon it were believed to represent the measurement of the feet of the first of his predecessors. When needed, it was brought out in state from the abbey and laid upon the top of the Rock of Doon: the abbot in all his canonicals, with a suitable retinue of his order. was there, holding in his hand a carefully peeled and smoothed white wand. The chieftain himself placed his feet in the prints on the inaugural stone: the abbot, after saying certain prayers especially made for the ceremony, handed him the white rod. The O’Donnell received it reverently: he pledged himself to abide by the laws and customs of his forefathers, to see to it that his administration of justice should be as straight and pure as the white rod which he held in his hand.

    His principal clansmen surrounded him on the rock, arrayed in their most costly apparel, while the rest, in a great throng, stood bare-headed at its base, breaking in ever and anon upon the ceremony with loud and joyful cries. As far as I could learn, the Holy Well played no part in this old-worn ritual which was observed so late as the days of the first two Stewarts. When the proceedings ceased the stone was carefully replaced in the abbey, to be closely guarded until it was needed once more. Then a great banquet followed, ending with music and dancing. The stone has disappeared for many years; nor is it known certainly what has become of it. Some assert that it came into the possession of a convert to Protestantism, who, in his new-born,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 75

    As the companion tells it

    This is Doon Rock, where the O'Donnell chieftains were inaugurated. The ceremony used a large flat stone kept for centuries at Kilmacrenan Abbey, not far away. The stone bore the prints of a pair of feet, either carved by hand or made by a freak of nature. The marks were believed to represent the measurement of the feet of the first of the chieftain's predecessors. When the stone was needed, it was brought out in state from the abbey and laid upon the top of the Rock of Doon. The abbot came in all his canonicals, with a retinue of his order, holding in his hand a carefully peeled and smoothed white wand. The chieftain placed his feet in the prints on the inaugural stone. The abbot said certain prayers made especially for the ceremony, then handed him the white rod. The O'Donnell received it reverently and pledged himself to abide by the laws and customs of his forefathers, and to see that his administration of justice would be as straight and pure as the white rod he held in his hand. His principal clansmen surrounded him on the rock, arrayed in their most costly apparel. The rest of the people stood bare-headed in a great throng at its base, breaking in ever and again with loud and joyful cries. The ritual was observed as late as the days of the first two Stewarts. When the proceedings ended, the stone was carefully replaced in the abbey and closely guarded until it was needed once more. A great banquet followed, ending with music and dancing. The stone has disappeared for many years, and it is not known certainly what has become of it. Some assert that it came into the possession of a convert to Protestantism.

15. Tory fishermen strand the Falcarragh doctor

    Falcarragh · town · Donegal · 1874–1924

    A doctor living at Falcarragh was summoned to Tory Island to treat a dying patient, having first demanded a guinea fee. After he fulfilled his duty, the fishermen refused to take him back to the mainland until he paid three guineas, leaving him stranded for days on the island.

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    relatives of the patient have recourse to the wisewoman, or to the charms and remedies dating from a remote antiquity. Sometimes, however, the disease is too potent for these old-world specifics, and it is necessary to send for the nearest doctor. Such a case happened within the last fifty years: the nearest doctor then lived at Falcarragh, and for long afterwards. He professed to be the hero of the story; but as that rank has been claimed by other doctors, I will not presume to assort their differences. The adage is old but true, ‘‘ Where doctors disagree, who then shall decide? ’’ But the virtual truth of the story is perhaps guaranteed by the number of claimants for the victim’s wreath. As far as I am concerned I am willing to leave it with my informant, though I cannot tell his story as he told it.

    Early one morning he was startled by the advent of five or six fishermen from Tory, who earnestly prayed him to come and prescribe for a patient who seemed on the point of death. Realizing the roughness of the passage and the doubt of receiving any recompense for his service, he put them off as well as he could. When all else failed, he imagined that the mention of his fee would damp their enthusiasm: he explained that he could not go unless they first paid him his fee of a guinea. The deputation retired a little to consult with one another, and he thought that he had got rid of them: much to his surprise, in less than five minutes they returned, and laying the money in his hand, they bade him to come with them. He had now no longer any reasonable ground for refusal, so pocketing his fee and his disinclination, he boarded their boat and in due time they arrived at the landing-place. They took him to the cabin where the sick man was lying in a parlous condition: he prescribed for his patient, sat up the night with him, and left him in a fair way of recovery. 5

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 74

    As the companion tells it

    You are coming through Falcarragh now, in Donegal. In the late 1800s, this was where the nearest doctor lived when someone fell gravely ill on Tory Island, out in the Atlantic. When sickness came to Tory, people tried charms and old remedies first. Sometimes those were not enough, and they had to send for the mainland doctor. This happened within the last fifty years before the book was written. The doctor at Falcarragh later claimed the story as his own, though other doctors claimed it too. The writer notes the old adage, "Where doctors disagree, who then shall decide?" One morning, five or six fishermen from Tory arrived at his door, begging him to come treat a patient who seemed on the point of death. He knew the crossing would be rough and he doubted he would be paid. He tried to put them off. When that failed, he thought mentioning his fee would discourage them. He told them he could not go unless they first paid him a guinea. The fishermen stepped aside to talk among themselves. He thought he was rid of them. In less than five minutes they came back, laid the money in his hand, and told him to come. He had no grounds left to refuse. He pocketed his fee and his reluctance, boarded their boat, and they reached the island. They took him to the cabin where the sick man lay in a parlous condition. He prescribed for his patient, sat up the night with him, and left him in a fair way to recover. But when his work was done, the fishermen refused to take him back to the mainland. They demanded three guineas for the return passage. He was stranded on Tory for days until he paid.

16. Clough-Kineely stone at Gortahork

    Gortahork · town · Donegal

    Balor beheaded Kineely on a large stone near Gortahork; his clotted blood is said to still be visible on the Clough-Kineely, a huge quartzite block with a deep-red vein mounted on a column in the grounds of the Olphert family.

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    But his precautions were vain: a young hero, Kineely, heard of the unhappy damsel’s woeful plight, gained access to her, wooed and won her, and made her mother of twin sons. When Balor heard the fatal tidings, he was moved to great wrath: first he fell suddenly upon Kineely and cut off his head on a large stone near Gortahork, where his clotted blood can still be seen on the Clough-Kineely, or ** Kineely’s Stone,’’ a huge block of quartzite with a deep-red vein mounted on a column in the grounds of one of the former generations of the Olphert family. Having thus made away with his objectionable son-in-law, he turned his attention to his infant grandsons, sending one of his henchmen to lay hold of them and drown them in the sea. In spite of the prayers and tears of the distracted mother the henchman seized the twins, pinned them up in a blanket, and as he thought cast both of them into the noisy waves. But the pin had given way at a corner of the blanket, and one of the children fell out into the grass by the wayside, where he was found by a herdsman and reared for his own. So tenacious are the Irish of their national traditions, that the inlet where the other child was drowned, is called ‘‘ Port a delg,”’ or ‘‘ Bay of the Pin ”’ to this day.

    The rescued twin grew up safely into strong manhood under the name of MacKineely, or ‘‘ Kineely’s son.’’ In due time his foster-father told him of his royal birth and of the sad fate of his father and brother. The young man listened eagerly: burning with indignation he made up his mind to be revenged

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Gortahork, you are near the place where the old story says Balor cut off Kineely's head on a large stone. The stone is the Clough-Kineely, Kineely's Stone, a huge block of quartzite with a deep-red vein, mounted on a column in the grounds of one of the former generations of the Olphert family. His clotted blood can still be seen on it, or so the story goes. Kineely had wooed and won Balor's daughter, and she bore twin sons. When Balor heard the news, he fell upon Kineely and killed him on that stone, then sent a henchman to drown the infants in the sea. The henchman pinned them up in a blanket and cast them into the waves, but the pin gave way at a corner and one child fell out into the grass by the wayside. A herdsman found him and reared him. The other child was drowned, and the inlet where it happened is called Port a Delg, Bay of the Pin, to this day. The rescued twin grew up under the name MacKineely, Kineely's son. His foster-father told him of his royal birth and the fate of his father and brother, and the young man burned to be revenged.

17. Columbkille consults St. Molaise of Inishmurray

    Inishmurray · townland · Sligo

    Columbkille is said to have consulted his friend St. Molaise of Inishmurray about what penance was due for inciting his clansmen against King Diarmid. Molaise commanded him to leave for a land from which he could not see Ireland and convert as many souls as had fallen in battle.

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    At all events he is said to have consulted his friend, St. Molaise of Inishmurray, who was cast in a gentler mould than himself, asking what penance was due from him for having incited his clansmen to fight against King Diarmid. To him Columbkille opened out all his heart in Confession, and he received what to him must have been the severest of all penances. He was commanded to go to a land from which he could not see Ireland, and to convert to Christianity as many in number as had fallen in the battle. Such is the traditional cause of the Saint’s voyage to Jona and his establishment of a monastery there which was destined to win fame in every part of Europe. In its graveyard, for many generations, the Kings of Scotland were laid, and pilgrims flocked thither to receive the Saint’s blessing during his lifetime and his intercession after he had passed from earth. A terrible penance it was for one who loved his native land so passionately as to have written long after he had left it these pathetic lines:

    Happy are ye, O waves, that are permitted

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 99

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Inishmurray, Columbkille is said to have consulted his friend St. Molaise about what penance was due for having incited his clansmen to fight against King Diarmid. He opened out all his heart in confession, and he received what must have been the severest of all penances. He was commanded to go to a land from which he could not see Ireland, and to convert to Christianity as many in number as had fallen in the battle. That is the traditional cause of his voyage to Iona and the establishment of a monastery there, which was destined to win fame in every part of Europe. In its graveyard, for many generations, the Kings of Scotland were laid, and pilgrims flocked there to receive his blessing during his lifetime and his intercession after he had passed from earth. It was a terrible penance for one who loved his native land so passionately as to have written long after he had left it these lines: Happy are ye, O waves, that are permitted.

18. Diarmid and Grania legend at Kilclooney cromlech

    Kilclooney · townland · Cork · 1894

    The Donegal version of the Diarmid and Grania legend centres on the cromlech at Kilclooney, where the lovers slept on a bed of sand to deceive Finn's divining tooth. The author heard this oral version from a local seannachie while sitting beside the cromlech, told with humour and sympathy for the young lovers.

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    a stolen marriage for a year and a day, while they kept their pursuer, like a great pendulum, oscillating between the two cromlechs, but arriving at each just at the time when they themselves had left it. In the end the pleasing comedy, displeasing to Finn alone, reached a tragical conclusion. It may be that Diarmid on one occasion forgot to use his stratagem; at all events, the wise King, so long mocked in spite of his wisdom, came up with them; in his rage he put both of them to the sword, so that their eventful career ended when it had little more than begun. This form of the story is the County Donegal version, as I heard it myself while I sat by the cromlech at Kilclooney. Dr. MacDevitt has adopted it and told it far more dramatically than I could: but the old peasant who told it me had few of the flourishes of literature in his narrative style; yet he told it with a power and a subtle humour which made it inimitable and at the same time irreproducible.

    The simplicity of Diarmid’s device, and the naiveté which made it possible to allow the wisest of the pagans who had a means of divination peculiar to himself to be so long deceived by it, appealed strongly to my imagination, especially when my informant, clearly sympathizing with the young lovers, referred. to Finn under the disrespectful title of ‘‘the ould blackgyard.””’ Many of the other solitary cromlechs bear the same name with that of Kilclooney, and the lovers with much greater plausibility are said to have led Finn over the whole of Ireland. But I confess that I am more delighted with the Donegal version than with any of the others, both because of its ingenuousness and its strong local patriotism. I can imagine it told in Gaelic over a peat-fire on a winter’s night with fine effect, for the Irish are naturally dramatic both in their telling of a story and in their lively gesticulation. My .informant was the principal seannachie, or

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 81

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Kilclooney there is a cromlech, and in 1894 a man sat beside it while an old seannachie told him the Donegal version of the Diarmid and Grania legend. Diarmid and Grania had a stolen marriage for a year and a day. They kept their pursuer Finn moving between two cromlechs, arriving at each one just after the lovers had left it. The lovers slept on a bed of sand, and this simple trick deceived Finn's divining tooth for the whole of that year. The author said the pleasing comedy, displeasing to Finn alone, reached a tragical conclusion. It may be that Diarmid on one occasion forgot to use his stratagem. At all events, the wise king, so long mocked in spite of his wisdom, came up with them, and in his rage put both of them to the sword, so that their eventful career ended when it had little more than begun. The old peasant who told the story had few of the flourishes of literature in his style, yet he told it with a power and a subtle humour which the author called inimitable and irreproducible. The seannachie clearly sympathised with the young lovers and referred to Finn under the disrespectful title of the ould blackgyard. The author said the simplicity of Diarmid's device appealed strongly to his imagination, especially when his informant used that name. Many other solitary cromlechs bear the same name as Kilclooney, and the lovers are said to have led Finn over the whole of Ireland. But the author was more delighted with the Donegal version than any of the others, both for its ingenuousness and its strong local patriotism.

19. Flight to O'Byrne's fortress in Glenmalure

    near Glenmalur · valley · Wicklow · 1592

    After escaping Dublin Castle, Red Hugh O'Donnell and one of the O'Neils fled through the harsh winter roads of County Wicklow toward the fortress of Hugh O'Byrne in Glen Malure. The O'Neil died of exposure on the journey; O'Donnell was found nearly dead, covered in hail and snow, and was rescued by men sent from O'Byrne's castle.

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    Seizing upon the opportunity, the ‘‘ Red Hugh,”’ with two of the young O’Neils, once more escaped from the prison through the common sewer of the castle. One of the O’Neils in the darkness strayed away from his companions and apparently was retaken. O’Donnell with the other found a guide who proved faithful to them: lightly clad as they were the two youths sought to find their way through the bitter winter weather to the friendly fortress of Hugh O’Byrne in the wild Glen Malure. The roads in County Wicklow at that time were not wellmade and easily passable as they are at the present time, and the hardship of the journey seemed likely to make an end of the youths. After struggling over pathless wilds they at length sank down utterly worn out on the winter snow. The guide, being cast in a stronger mould, hastened forward to summon “help: in the end he reached O’Byrne’s castle, who at once sent out men to aid the all but lifeless fugitives. When they were found, ‘‘ their bodies were already covered with white-bordered shrouds of hailstones, freezing around them, and their light clothes adhered to their skin, so that covered as they were with the snow, it did not appear to the men who had arrived that they were human beings at all, for they found no life in their members, but just as if they were dead.’”’ That is a graphic passage in the story of the winter-flight of the two young noblemen, told in the simplest language and under the influence of intense emotion. O’Neil was not strong enough to survive exposure so long, and cold so extreme: the moment that he was lifted from the ground he fell back into the arms of his supporters and breathed his last. Thus a further cause was added to O’Donnell’s hatred of England

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 113

    As the companion tells it

    This is the valley of Glenmalure in Wicklow. In the winter of 1592, two young men struggled through these mountains trying to reach it. Red Hugh O'Donnell had escaped Dublin Castle through the common sewer of the prison, with two of the young O'Neils. One of the O'Neils strayed away in the darkness and was apparently retaken. O'Donnell and the other O'Neil found a guide who stayed faithful to them. They were lightly clad, and the roads of County Wicklow at that time were not well made or easily passable. They sought to find their way through bitter winter weather to the friendly fortress of Hugh O'Byrne in this wild glen. The hardship of the journey seemed likely to make an end of them both. After struggling over pathless wilds they sank down, utterly worn out, on the winter snow. The guide, being made of stronger stuff, hastened forward to summon help. He reached O'Byrne's castle, and O'Byrne at once sent out men to aid the all but lifeless fugitives. When the men found them, their bodies were already covered with white-bordered shrouds of hailstones, freezing around them, and their light clothes adhered to their skin. Covered as they were with the snow, it did not appear to the men who had arrived that they were human beings at all, for they found no life in their members, just as if they were dead. O'Neil was not strong enough to survive exposure so long and cold so extreme. The moment he was lifted from the ground he fell back into the arms of his supporters and breathed his last. O'Donnell lived. Thus a further cause was added to his hatred of England.

20. Inishkeel: saints Caoil and Dallan, churches and pilgrimage

    Inishkeel · townland · Donegal

    Inishkeel, near Narin, is connected to the mainland by a sand isthmus and contains two old churches, a holy well, and a stone chair linked to St. Columba. Saints Caoil and Dallan dwelt there; Dallan was murdered by sea-rovers who decapitated him, and his head miraculously floated back to rejoin his body through Caoil's prayers. Pilgrims visit the dual grave to perform stations and the desiul.

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    In the southern half of the county, near Narin, lies the Island of* Inishkeel, that is the Island of Caoil, or Conal, which is united to the mainland by a broad isthmus of sand, when the tide is far out. On it are two very old churches, a holy well, and a curious block of stone shaped naturally into a sort of rude chair, which is connected with the name of St. Columba. On this little green island long ago dwelt two saints, Caoil (pronounced Keel) and Dallan, bound to one another by such strong

    HAUNTS. OF THE EAGLE i

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 76

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Inishkeel, near Narin, a little green island sits joined to the mainland by a broad isthmus of sand when the tide is far out. On it stand two very old churches, a holy well, and a curious block of stone shaped naturally into a rude chair, connected with St. Columba. Two saints dwelt here long ago, Caoil and Dallan, bound to one another by strong ties. Dallan was murdered by sea-rovers who cut off his head, but through Caoil's prayers the head miraculously floated back and rejoined his body. Pilgrims still visit their dual grave to perform the stations and the desiul.

21. Kilmacrenan Abbey and the O'Donnell inauguration stone

    Kilmacrenan · town · Donegal

    Kilmacrenan Abbey kept for centuries a large flat stone bearing the prints of a pair of feet, used in the inauguration of O'Donnell chieftains. The stone was brought out in state to the Rock of Doon for ceremonies and returned to the abbey afterwards; it has since disappeared.

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    At Kilmacrenan Abbey, not far away, was kept for centuries a large flat stone with the prints of a pair of feet upon it, either produced by the hand of man or by a freak of Nature. On this stone the O’Donnell chieftain was inaugurated by a successor of St. Columba; the marks upon it were believed to represent the measurement of the feet of the first of his predecessors. When needed, it was brought out in state from the abbey and laid upon the top of the Rock of Doon: the abbot in all his canonicals, with a suitable retinue of his order. was there, holding in his hand a carefully peeled and smoothed white wand. The chieftain himself placed his feet in the prints on the inaugural stone: the abbot, after saying certain prayers especially made for the ceremony, handed him the white rod. The O’Donnell received it reverently: he pledged himself to abide by the laws and customs of his forefathers, to see to it that his administration of justice should be as straight and pure as the white rod which he held in his hand.

    His principal clansmen surrounded him on the rock, arrayed in their most costly apparel, while the rest, in a great throng, stood bare-headed at its base, breaking in ever and anon upon the ceremony with loud and joyful cries. As far as I could learn, the Holy Well played no part in this old-worn ritual which was observed so late as the days of the first two Stewarts. When the proceedings ceased the stone was carefully replaced in the abbey, to be closely guarded until it was needed once more. Then a great banquet followed, ending with music and dancing. The stone has disappeared for many years; nor is it known certainly what has become of it. Some assert that it came into the possession of a convert to Protestantism, who, in his new-born,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 75

    As the companion tells it

    Kilmacrenan in Donegal was the keeping place of a stone that mattered more than most. For centuries a large flat stone was held at the abbey here, marked with the prints of a pair of feet, whether cut by human hand or shaped by some freak of nature. On this stone the O'Donnell chieftain was inaugurated, by a successor of St. Columba. The marks were believed to match the feet of the first of his predecessors. When the stone was needed it was brought out in state from the abbey and laid upon the top of the Rock of Doon. The abbot came in all his canonicals, with a retinue of his order, holding in his hand a carefully peeled and smoothed white wand. The chieftain placed his feet in the prints on the stone. The abbot said certain prayers made for the ceremony, then handed him the white rod. The O'Donnell received it reverently and pledged himself to abide by the laws and customs of his forefathers, to see that his administration of justice should be as straight and pure as the white rod he held in his hand. His principal clansmen surrounded him on the rock in their most costly apparel, while the rest stood bare-headed at its base in a great throng, breaking in with loud and joyful cries. The ritual was observed so late as the days of the first two Stewarts. When the proceedings ended the stone was carefully replaced in the abbey and closely guarded until needed again. A great banquet followed, ending with music and dancing. The stone has disappeared for many years, and it is not known certainly what became of it. Some say it came into the possession of a convert to Protestantism who, in his new-born zeal, may have destroyed it.

22. Balor of the Mighty Blows ruling Tory Island

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    Tory Island was ruled in the far past by Balor of 'the mighty blows,' who held much of the neighbouring mainland under his sway. Balor possessed an evil eye in the back of his head that could blast his enemies with its deadly gaze when propped open.

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    barren summit of Dooish, or ‘‘ black back.’’ For many years I could not prevail upon any of the scattered inhabitants of the neighbourhood to explain why the desolate corrie bore so grim a name. Whenever I asked the question, I was put off with the unsatisfying answer, ‘‘ Ah, sure and it’s nothing but a poisoned glen! ’’ Had I understood the native Gaelic I should probably have fared better; such knowledge would have given the people confidence in me, they would have known that I was asking for information and with no desire of poking fun at their ancient legends. At length I fell in with the venerable gardener at one of the great houses not far away. He proved to be a veritable mine of folk-lore, though his means of communication was a singularly monotonous voice not unlike the drone of an Irish bagpipe, which alternately irritated the nerves and induced sleep. I listened gratefully as long as I could endure the strain, and was rewarded by the acquisition of much varied information, some of which is not in the books of folk-lore, while most of it differed in many particulars from all of them. From the top of Errigal I had often looked out upon the rugged coast of Tory Island clean cut upon the Atlantic Ocean: more than once I had passed beneath its savage cliffs on my way to Sligo. In the far past this desolate land was under the sway of Balor of ‘‘ the mighty blows,’’ who could fell an ox with his fist. Here he ruled in primitive state, holding much of the neighbouring mainland under his sway. He was endowed with an invaluable gift: he had an ‘‘ evil eye ”’ set in the back of his head, which, however, he could not keep open unless it was propped up by a stout stake—there were giants in those days. When once his eye was set in position, Balor had only to turn his head upon his enemies and they were blasted by its deadly gaze. He had no children save one daughter Ethnea, by whom he was threatened with serious danger. A Druid

    6 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here lies Tory Island. The writer of this passage often looked out upon its rugged coast from the top of Errigal, and more than once passed beneath its savage cliffs on his way to Sligo. He learned much of what he knew from an old gardener at one of the great houses not far away, a man who proved to be a mine of folk-lore, though his voice was monotonous, not unlike the drone of an Irish bagpipe. Some of what he heard was not in the books of folk-lore, and most of it differed in many particulars from all of them. In the far past this desolate land was under the sway of Balor of "the mighty blows," who could fell an ox with his fist. Here he ruled in primitive state, holding much of the neighbouring mainland under his sway. He was endowed with an invaluable gift: he had an "evil eye" set in the back of his head, which, however, he could not keep open unless it was propped up by a stout stake. There were giants in those days. When once his eye was set in position, Balor had only to turn his head upon his enemies and they were blasted by its deadly gaze. He had no children save one daughter, Ethnea, by whom he was threatened with serious danger. A Druid — but the passage breaks off, and the rest is lost.

23. Battering-ram for Gweedore evictions stalled near Falcarragh

    Falcarragh · town · Donegal

    A battering-ram, manufactured for the Gweedore evictions but never used, was displayed in an open shed near Falcarragh. The mail-car driver Larry expressed bitter anger at the sight of it, cursing it in Gaelic as a symbol of British disregard for local rights.

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    always to be crushed beneath the burden of his responsibility. Nothing appeared to move him as he bent forward to quicken the paces of his bareboned Rosinante, or looked stolidly at a long list of parcels, which he took out of his pocket so often that it began to grow almost illegible. He did, however, lift and turn his head to show me the famous ‘“‘ battering-ram ’’ manufactured but never used for the Gweedore evictions, and finally stalled in an open shed near Falcarragh. It was an imposing-looking instrument, fashioned after a strictly classical fashion, and well calculated to do great execution upon the primitive cabins of the district. It seemed to be made of oak, or some equally hard wood, which had suffered little from the weather. Though he was in the employment of the government Larry’s long face was lighted up with a sudden blaze of anger when he saw it, and he exclaimed, ‘“‘ Bad cess to ye for an ill-mannered baste that ye are. May the divvle rot ye entirely! ”’

    Just before we reached this monstrous monument of British respect for the rights of property, the mail-car came to so sudden a stop that I was all but thrown into the middle of the road. Righting myself in a moment, for I am well used to the eccentricities of the vehicle, I looked ahead to see what was the matter. A striking picture presented itself before my eyes: a tall woman clinging to a long rope tied to the right hind-leg of a huge pig, stretched their tether right across the road and effectually prevented any immediate advance. The woman was screeching Gaelic oaths, the pig was answering in its own tongue: she would not, the pig could not, let go, and the pair remained in a state of equilibrium for some time. Larry, by this time thoroughly roused, fired off a torrent of evilsounding Gaelic, the woman cursed, and the pig squealed, thus performing a deafening but highly amusing trio, At last the pig shook itself free;

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 43

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Falcarragh, there is a shed near the town where a battering-ram once stood in the open, manufactured but never used for the Gweedore evictions. It was an imposing-looking instrument, fashioned after a strictly classical fashion, and well calculated to do great execution upon the primitive cabins of the district. It seemed to be made of oak, or some equally hard wood, which had suffered little from the weather. The author saw it from a mail-car driven by a man named Larry, who was in the employment of the government. Larry drove a bareboned horse and carried a long list of parcels in his pocket that grew almost illegible from being taken out so often. Nothing seemed to move him, but when he saw the battering-ram his long face was lighted up with a sudden blaze of anger. He exclaimed, "Bad cess to ye for an ill-mannered baste that ye are. May the divvle rot ye entirely." The author calls it a monstrous monument of British respect for the rights of property. Just before reaching the shed, the mail-car came to so sudden a stop that the author was all but thrown into the middle of the road. A tall woman clung to a long rope tied to the right hind-leg of a huge pig, stretched right across the road. The woman was screeching Gaelic oaths, the pig was answering in its own tongue. She would not, the pig could not, let go, and the pair remained in a state of equilibrium for some time. Larry, thoroughly roused, fired off a torrent of evil-sounding Gaelic. The woman cursed, the pig squealed. At last the pig shook itself free.

24. Benbulbin cave as the Bed of Diarmid and Grania

    Benbulbin · mountain or mountain range · Sligo

    The Sligo version of the Diarmid and Grania legend is associated with a large cave on the side of Benbulben, known as 'the Bed of Diarmid and Grania.' In this version, Grania was married to Finn but met Diarmid in the cave during Finn's absences, sending her husband on errands to the shore.

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    Colonel Wood Martin has narrated the Sligo version, which is bound up with a large cave on the ‘side of Benbulben, which is also called ‘‘ the Bed of Diarmid and Grania,’’ and is the only instance in which they are represented as having a roof over their heads during their flight. In this cave, Finn, who had married Grania, lived with her, when by some enchantment her heart was given to Diarmid. Here the two often met in the absence of her husband, and enjoyed stolen sweets. Furthermore, Grania had the reprehensible habit of sending Finn down to the shore on mythical, or at least unnecessary, errands. The moment that his venerable back was turned Diarmid was sure to appear. There is quite a modern flavour about this form of the legend, which I own does not appeal to me so strongly as the one I have attempted to reproduce. It might indeed form the plot of a present-day society novel with but a slight change of names and scene, a circumstance which proves the utter absence of originality amongst a large proportion of our modern novelists.

    The foregoing are some of the bits of fairy-lore and legend which I was able to pick up from the lips of the peasantry, and in one case from a worthy priest, when I was on tramp through County Donegal about thirty years ago. I took as full notes as I could at the time, and as my narrators would permit. The moment that they saw my notebook and pencil, they proved as suspicious as Edie Ochiltree when Monkbarns desired to take down his evidence. They imagined that I was a ‘“ government-man,’’ hence they became dumb at once. Few as are the notes, they illustrate with remarkable clearness the persistent survival of paganism side by side with the Christianity of the Roman Church. Not a word of disparagement to

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 82

    As the companion tells it

    Benbulbin rises over Sligo, a mountain with a flat-topped profile you cannot miss. On its side there is a large cave known as the Bed of Diarmid and Grania, and the story told here is the Sligo version of that old legend. Colonel Wood Martin narrated it. In this telling, Finn had married Grania, and the two of them lived together in the cave. Then by some enchantment her heart was given to Diarmid. She and Diarmid began meeting in the cave during Finn's absences, and what the source calls the enjoyment of stolen sweets followed. Grania had the habit of sending Finn down to the shore on errands that were mythical, or at least unnecessary. The moment his back was turned, Diarmid was sure to appear. The writer of this passage says this version of the legend has a modern flavour about it. He remarks it might form the plot of a present-day society novel with but a slight change of names and scene, a circumstance which he says proves the utter absence of originality amongst a large proportion of our modern novelists. He gathered these stories from the lips of the peasantry and in one case from a worthy priest, when tramping through County Donegal about thirty years before he wrote. When people saw his notebook and pencil they became suspicious. They imagined he was a government-man, and grew dumb at once.

25. Cathach shrine of the O'Donnells

    Dublin · city · Dublin

    The manuscript in dispute between Columbkille and Finnian was traditionally enclosed in a costly shrine and became the 'Cathach' or battle-book of the O'Donnells, carried into battle for centuries as a talisman for victory. The shrine is now preserved in the collection of the Royal Irish Academy.

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    Curiously enough, the very manuscript in dispute, according to tradition, was enclosed in a costly. shrine, and became the ‘‘Cathach”’ or ‘“ battlebook ”’ of the O’Donnells, who always had it carried into battle with them for centuries after the death of the Saint. It was supposed to be a talisman for victory like the Ark to the ancient Israelites. The shrine of this lost relic has been carefully preserved and is now in the collection of the Royal Irish Academy. Whether the traditional authority is sufficient to give this manuscript to Columbkille or not, I am not able to decide. But the work of the shrine itself is of a fine order, and it forms a beautiful cover for a treasured possession.

    Not long afterwards, at the assembly at Teltown, Columbkille is said to have been excommunicated as having caused so much bloodshed in a manner wholly unbecoming to an ecclesiastic. If that sentence really were passed upon him, it was soon quashed. But according to one tradition the cause of his retirement to Glencolumbkille was the repentant knowledge that he had caused the death of so

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 98

    As the companion tells it

    Dublin holds a relic with a long and violent history. The manuscript once in dispute between Columbkille and Finnian was, according to tradition, enclosed in a costly shrine and became the Cathach, the battle-book of the O'Donnells. They carried it into battle for centuries after the Saint's death, believing it a talisman for victory, like the Ark to the ancient Israelites. The shrine itself is now preserved in the collection of the Royal Irish Academy, and its work is of a fine order, a beautiful cover for a treasured possession. Not long after the dispute, at the assembly at Teltown, Columbkille is said to have been excommunicated for having caused so much bloodshed in a manner wholly unbecoming to an ecclesiastic. If that sentence was truly passed upon him, it was soon quashed. But one tradition holds that the cause of his retirement to Glencolumbkille was the repentant knowledge that he had caused the death of so many.

26. Death of Sir Cahir O'Dogherty at Doon Rock, 1608

    Doon Rock · rock or rocks · Donegal · 1608

    Sir Cahir O'Dogherty, chieftain of Innishowen, fell beneath the Rock of Doon on 5th July 1608 after a brief struggle for Irish liberation. He was beloved by his people but defeated through the treachery of a trusted leader in the Irish camp.

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    Beneath it, on 5th July, 1608, fell Sir Cahir O’Dogherty, the chieftain of Innishowen, after a brief but brilliant struggle for the liberation of his country. Brave, high-spirited and handsome he was the darling of his people and the terror of his foes, who did not shrink from libelling him with vile calumnies. To Sir Arthur Chichester, James I.’s Lord Deputy, he was a “ bloody traitor and rebel ’’; in the eyes of his countrymen he was the gallant champion of their freedom, whose name lived long amongst their mountains and glens. The treachery of a traitor in the Irish camp hastened his defeat and death. It is singular, that not a single one of the chieftains who almost succeeded in winning the independence of their country, escaped from the treachery of one of their trusted leaders. Their story is told with fine restraint and conspicuous fairness in Joyce’s fine ‘‘ Short History of

    168 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 75

    As the companion tells it

    A rock in Donegal, Doon Rock, and beneath it on 5th July 1608 fell Sir Cahir O'Dogherty, chieftain of Innishowen. He had led a brief but brilliant struggle for the liberation of his country. Brave, high-spirited and handsome, he was the darling of his people and the terror of his foes, who did not shrink from libelling him with vile calumnies. To Sir Arthur Chichester, Lord Deputy to James I, he was "a bloody traitor and rebel." In the eyes of his countrymen he was the gallant champion of their freedom, whose name lived long amongst their mountains and glens. The treachery of a traitor in the Irish camp hastened his defeat and death. It is singular that not a single one of the chieftains who almost succeeded in winning the independence of their country escaped from the treachery of one of their trusted leaders.

27. Fairy doctor at Doochary Bridge

    near Doochary · population centre · Donegal

    At Doochary Bridge, the narrator encounters a wild-looking woman whom his driver Michael identifies as a 'fairy docthor,' feared for possessing the 'evil eye.' The innkeeper at Doochary Bridge relates that the woman was believed to have been stolen by the 'good people' in her youth, returning decades later as a fairy-doctor of local celebrity, though the innkeeper suspects she had simply run off with a painter.

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    When my host of the inn came into the room to see that my lunch was getting ready, I began to question him with great caution about the antecedents of the wise-woman. Much to my relief I found that good Catholic as he was, he had no belief in fairies, though he had many other superstitions of his own. From him I learned that this woman was commonly believed by the folk of that and the neighbouring valleys to have been stolen away in her youth and beauty by the ‘‘ good people.’’ She had disappeared suddenly from her old home, from which she had been away at least a score of years, when she suddenly returned to be a “‘ fairy-doctor ”’ of no small local celebrity. ‘‘ It’s my own self that remembers her a fine colleen entirely, sir,’’ he said at the close of his story. ‘‘ Many’s the boy now living that broke his heart thrying to win her. But it’s my belief, sir, that she went off wid a painter-fellow, that lodged in my house, and came back when he’d wearied of her. By gob, that’s the sort of fairy-prince that stole her away, that and never a one beside! ”’

    He may have been right, or he may have been wrong: but I have never seen a more weird-looking woman of her years in Ireland; nor have I any doubt

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 68

    As the companion tells it

    Around Doochary, there is a story the innkeeper used to tell about a woman people called a fairy doctor. The narrator met her once, a wild-looking woman, and his driver Michael named her that and said she was feared for the evil eye. At the inn, the innkeeper told what he knew. He was a good Catholic, he said, and had no belief in fairies, though he held other superstitions of his own. The folk of that valley and the neighbouring valleys believed this woman had been stolen away in her youth and beauty by the good people. She vanished suddenly from her old home and was gone at least a score of years before she returned to be a fairy-doctor of no small local celebrity. The innkeeper had his own theory. He remembered her as a fine colleen, and said many a boy still living broke his heart trying to win her. But he believed she went off with a painter-fellow who had lodged in his house, and came back when he had wearied of her. "By gob," he said, "that's the sort of fairy-prince that stole her away, that and never a one beside." The narrator says he never saw a more weird-looking woman of her years in Ireland.

28. Father Carr and the whirlwind at Slieve League

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    Father Carr and his clerk Owen, having stayed in Malinbeg, were compelled by an inner prompting to ride toward Kilcar despite an approaching storm. At Slieve League a devastating whirlwind tore rocks apart but was miraculously diverted, after which Father Carr discovered a wrecked ship and a dying Spaniard on the cliffs below.

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    Father Carr and his clerk Owen had been entertained by a hospitable farmer in Malinbeg and intended to pass the night in safety with him. But the bright moonlight roused the brave priest, and yielding to some irresistible prompting within him, he bade Owen saddle his pony and accompany him towards Kilcar. No manner of persuasion would induce him to alter his resolution; so the two set out over the mountain path till they came to Slieve Liag itself looking black and grim in the shadow. The priest turned his head to look at the ‘‘ Lair of the Whirlwinds’’ and said quietly to Owen, ‘“Qwen, my man, there will be a storm soon, but the holy angels will guard us.’’ The clerk strove in vain to persuade him to turn back; his only answer was, ‘‘ The holy angels will guard us.” On they went, when there was a sudden stir in the waters beneath them, and the priest exclaimed, “‘ It’s coming sure enough, Owen, look at the wind rising like a giant. But the holy angels will guard us!’’ Nearer and nearer the black whirlwind came, moving slantwise, rending solid rocks and bearing on its rude breast huge pieces of white flagstone, as if they had been tufts of thistle-down.

    The two started back to the bare moorland to find such shelter as they could; but it seemed as if the storm-fiend would snatch them even there. On it whirled and roared in its slanting course, when its path was suddenly changed by a spur in the rock and it vanished into night, as swiftly as it had arisen. Father Carr turned with a cheerful face to his clerk, ‘‘ Said I not, Owen, my man, that the holy angels would guard us? The winds have spent their force, there’ll be no more storms to-night.’’ “Let us get on then, your reverence,’’ answered the clerk overjoyed like the priest at their unexpected deliverance from imminent peril. Father Carr was

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 13

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League in Donegal, the mountain the road passes near. One night Father Carr and his clerk Owen had been staying with a farmer in Malinbeg, meaning to pass the night there in safety. But the bright moonlight roused the priest, and yielding to some prompting within him he would not be stopped. He told Owen to saddle his pony and come with him towards Kilcar. No persuasion would change his mind. They set out over the mountain path until they came to Slieve League itself, looking black and grim in the shadow. Father Carr turned his head to look at what he called the Lair of the Whirlwinds and said quietly to Owen, there will be a storm soon, but the holy angels will guard us. The clerk tried to make him turn back. The priest only answered, the holy angels will guard us. On they went. There was a stir in the waters beneath them and the priest said, it is coming sure enough, look at the wind rising like a giant. But the holy angels will guard us. The black whirlwind came nearer, moving slantwise, rending solid rocks and carrying huge pieces of white flagstone on its breast as if they were thistle-down. The two fell back to the bare moorland to find what shelter they could, but it seemed the storm would snatch them even there. Then a spur in the rock changed the whirlwind's path and it vanished into the night as swiftly as it had arisen. Father Carr turned to Owen with a cheerful face. Said I not that the holy angels would guard us? The winds have spent their force, there will be no more storms tonight. Let us get on then, your reverence, the clerk answered, overjoyed at their deliverance.

29. Pilgrim penitential exercises at St. Patrick's Bed, Lough Derg

    near Saint's Island · townland · Clare

    Thousands of pilgrims came to Saint's Island on Lough Derg to sleep in the 'Saint's Bed' on a bare flat rock and perform severe penitential exercises including stations of the Cross, fasting, and prescribed prayers. In earlier days penitents had to sleep stark naked in the Bed for three days and three nights while fasting rigorously.

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    The Saint awoke, but he did not forget the vision which had sunk into his very being: he consecrated the place, and built a church there which developed into a celebrated monastery. The ruins of the abbey and traces of St. Patrick’s bed are to be found on Saint’s Island, not on the Station Island of modern pilgrimages, as Dr. MacDevitt has pointed out. To this there was originally a causeway Stretching to the margin of the lake, some of the ruins of which can still be seen below the surface of the water. To a spot thus consecrated by the presence of the national Saint, thousands of pilgrims come, each of whom sleeps in the ‘‘ Saint’s Bed,”’ that is, on a bare flat rock, and undergo certain severe penitential exercises. They recite the stations of the Cross, they fast, they utter the prescribed prayers. But they are not constrained to perform the extreme penitence of the earlier days, when each had to sleep stark naked in the ‘‘ Bed”’ for three days and three nights, fasting rigorously, as Colonel Wood Martin recounts.

    Happy is the penitent who repeats the Saint’s vision, when he sleeps in the ‘‘ Bed.’’ Should he be thus favoured he will without doubt escape some of the long periods of Purgatory, which bear some resemblance in duration to the epochs of geological time. At most times of the year multitudes of such pilgrims frequented the sacred spot, as they do still. Hence they caused no little trouble to the English Protestants in the early seventeenth century, who were disturbed alike by conscience and convenience.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 77

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Saint's Island, pilgrims have come for centuries to sleep in what they call the Saint's Bed. St. Patrick awoke from a vision that had sunk into his very being. He consecrated the place and built a church there, which grew into a celebrated monastery. The ruins of that abbey and traces of St. Patrick's Bed are on Saint's Island, not on the Station Island of modern pilgrimages, as Dr. MacDevitt has pointed out. A causeway once stretched from the island to the margin of the lake, and some of its ruins can still be seen below the surface of the water. Thousands of pilgrims came to this spot consecrated by the national Saint. Each one slept in the Saint's Bed, on a bare flat rock, and underwent severe penitential exercises. They recited the stations of the Cross, they fasted, they uttered the prescribed prayers. In earlier days the penance was extreme. Each penitent had to sleep stark naked in the Bed for three days and three nights, fasting rigorously, as Colonel Wood Martin recounts. The happy penitent was the one who repeated the Saint's vision in his sleep. Should he be thus favoured, he would without doubt escape some of the long periods of Purgatory, which bear some resemblance in duration to the epochs of geological time. Multitudes of pilgrims frequented the sacred spot at most times of year, as they do still. This caused no little trouble to the English Protestants in the early 1600s, who were disturbed alike by conscience and convenience.

30. Sack of Drogheda and the killing of the Walshes

    Drogheda · town · Louth

    Cromwell put to the sword three hundred of the Walshes after the sack of Drogheda, after which their kinsmen carried the bodies across Ireland for burial at Athenry, illustrating the Irish attachment to native earth.

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    has so long stood in the way of those who have sought to govern him from the outside. His shapely mountains, his blue lakes, his winding rivers, his vast deserts of quaking bog, his towering cliffs and lonely inlets, his innumerable islands and his ancient faith are dear to him as his heart’s blood. It is even said and believed of him by many of his kindred, that his unquiet spirit cannot rest if his body be not laid in his native earth. When Cromwell had put to the sword three hundred of the Walshes after the sack of Drogheda, their kinsmen bore them straight across the island, that their bones might rest at last in the Dominican Abbey in Athenry. Their monument may be seen to-day to tell of the Irishman’s deathless attachment to the place where he was born.

    Perhaps no other nation keeps in memory so faithfully the traditions and struggles of the past: this wild western county has been the very centre of both; the very names of the villages, peaks, rivers and islands are redolent of the memory of the past, when Ireland was the home of the learned, when her missionaries and scholars found their way not only to Scotland, but to many parts of Europe besides. Then, indeed, she was the ‘‘ Island of the Saints,”’ if now She is ‘‘ the distressful country ’’; then it may be that Brandan, Saint and voyager, was actually the first European to set foot on the shores of Florida. I recalled the Books of Kells and Durrow, ‘penned and illuminated by the careful hands of Irish Monks, and still unsurpassed in their own kind. The National Library contains amongst its choicest treasures the ‘“ Annals of the Four Masters,’’ which remains the most remarkable collection of national tradition and history in western Europe. I remembered the exquisitely carved crosses which I had seen in so many places, and it seemed to me that Ireland was indeed a land of the past, though none can say what future may yet lie before her.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    The road passes through Drogheda, a town in Louth whose name belongs to one of the bloodiest episodes in Irish history. When Cromwell sacked Drogheda, he put to the sword three hundred of the Walshes. Their kinsmen did not leave them where they fell. They bore the bodies straight across the island, so that their bones might rest at last in the Dominican Abbey in Athenry. The monument to the Walshes may still be seen, telling of the Irishman's deathless attachment to the place where he was born. The Irish have long held that an unquiet spirit cannot rest if the body is not laid in native earth. The mountains, the lakes, the rivers, the bogs, the cliffs and lonely inlets, the islands and the ancient faith are dear as heart's blood. Perhaps no other nation keeps so faithfully the traditions and struggles of the past. The names of villages, peaks, rivers and islands carry the memory of when Ireland was the home of the learned, when her missionaries and scholars found their way to Scotland and to many parts of Europe. She was the Island of the Saints, if now she is the distressful country. The Books of Kells and Durrow were penned and illuminated by the careful hands of Irish monks, and still stand unsurpassed in their kind. The Annals of the Four Masters remains the most remarkable collection of national tradition and history in western Europe. The carved crosses stand in so many places. Ireland is indeed a land of the past.

31. The Nun's Grave legend on Tory Island

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    Fishermen on Tory discovered the beautifully preserved body of a nun drifted above the high-water mark; the priest ordered her buried on the spot, and the 'Nun's Grave' became a sacred site. Fishermen thereafter took pinches of earth from the grave into their boats for protection against storms and for good catches, a custom that still continues.

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    Tory has one of the most beautiful of all the Irish legends connected with it, which I shall set down as I heard it, though not in the wonderful Doric of the teller who translated it to me from the Gaelic, nor with the fine literary power of Dr. MacDevitt. One morning, it is not known how long ago, some fishermen were making their way to the sea to ply their wonted task, when they saw the body of a nun which had drifted upon a green bank just above high-water-mark. The corpse was of an unearthly beauty, the hands were folded upon the breast, and

    164 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 73

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here on Tory Island there is a place they call the Nun's Grave. One morning, it is not known how long ago, fishermen were making their way to the sea when they saw the body of a nun which had drifted upon a green bank just above high-water mark. The corpse was of an unearthly beauty, the hands folded upon the breast. The priest ordered her buried on the spot, and the grave became a sacred site. Fishermen have ever since taken pinches of earth from it into their boats, for protection against storms and for good catches, a custom that still continues.

32. Changeling child seen near Lough Barra

    Lough Barra · lake or lakes · Donegal

    While travelling from Church Hill to Glenties via Doochary Bridge, the author heard screams from a cottage near Lough Barra and saw a wizened, miserable child tied to a chair. The driver Michael identified it as a changeling, crossing himself in fear, and the mother's expression of terror and loathing confirmed the depth of fairy-belief in the area.

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    At the same time, Michael, the driver, turned his eyes in the same direction, but he instantly removed them, as if he had seen a frightful dream. Then he crossed himself with a look not unlike that in the mother’s face and murmured in a low awe-stricken tone, ‘‘ That’s a_changeling, sir, and its poor mother. May the Lord save us all! ’’ I could only just catch his words, but I was deeply interested at once and tried in vain to draw further information out of him. It was quite clear that he wished that he had not spoken so much, that he was afraid that he might have offended the ‘‘ good people’’ as he called them by the mere mention of their spiteful tricks. He certainly believed that they could do him an irreparable injury if they chose, that they were hovering unseen around the car at that very moment. It may well have been, too, that he was in fear of my laughter: but the heart-rending shrieks of that miserable child and the awful look upon the

    K

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 67

    As the companion tells it

    Not far from Lough Barra, on the road from Church Hill to Glenties by way of Doochary Bridge, a cottage held something the driver Michael did not want to look at twice. He turned his eyes toward it and then pulled them away, as if he had seen a frightful dream. He crossed himself. The look on his face matched the look on the mother's face inside. In a low, awe-stricken tone he said, "That's a changeling, sir, and its poor mother. May the Lord save us all." He wished he had not said even that much. He called the fairies the good people and feared he had offended them by speaking of their spiteful tricks. He believed they could do him an irreparable injury if they chose, that they were hovering unseen around the car at that very moment. The heart-rending shrieks of that miserable child and the awful look upon the mother's face told the whole story.

33. Kilclooney Cromlech — Bed of Diarmid and Grania

    Kilclooney · townland · Cork

    Near Kilclooney stands one of the largest cromlechs in Ireland, with a massive red granite capstone twenty-one feet in diameter resting on four supports. Local countrymen call it 'The bed of Diarmid and Grania' and tell a romantic legend of the fugitive lovers that differs from the version current in County Sligo.

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    important though legendary event. Near it stands in a patch of heath one of the largest cromlechs in Ireland: its capstone consists of an erratic red granite boulder, rudely circular, with a diameter of twenty-one feet, and a thickness of from five to eight. It has four sturdy supports, of which the front pair are about six feet above the ground, and the hind pair about four and a half. Thus the capstone is inclined at an angle closely resembling the back of a frog. It is quite probable that the hind-pillars may have sunk beneath the enormous weight of the block. In the neighbouring field is a much smaller cromlech, the capstone of which has fallen off, and all the stones may easily have been found in the district close at hand.

    If a countryman be asked the name of this ancient monument, he will answer in Irish ‘‘ Leabbe Diarmidh agus Grainnue ’’—I am not sure of the spelling, so plethoric in unnecessary consonants is the Gaelic—or in. English ‘‘ The bed of Diarmid and Grania.’’ If he be one of the older men of the neighbourhood with but a few scattered traces of schooling about him, he may, if he chooses, tell a romantic story to account for the name. He will not tell the same story as is current in County Sligo to explain the same matter, but in my opinion, a pleasanter one and certainly more to the credit of the two lovers. No doubt the same name is given to most of the cromlechs, wherever they are found: but that fact matters little to a Donegal peasant, he has his own story to tell, and he tells it admirably. One such I met on the first occasion of my seeing the huge monument. He sat on the dry stone wall; though an old man he was remarkably active, and his mind was as quick in its movement as his body. He told me the legend with a stateliness which showed that he was translating from his native Gaelic: let me try to tell it in my own way, preserving his details, but not his manner of telling it,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 79

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here stands one of the largest cromlechs in Ireland. Its capstone is a massive red granite boulder, roughly circular, twenty-one feet across and five to eight feet thick, resting on four supports. The front pair rise about six feet from the ground, the hind pair about four and a half, so the great stone tilts at an angle like the back of a frog. The hind pillars may have sunk under the enormous weight. In a neighbouring field stands a much smaller cromlech whose capstone has fallen off, and all the stones could have been found in the district close at hand. If you ask a countryman the name of this monument, he will answer in Irish "Leabbe Diarmidh agus Grainnue" or in English "The bed of Diarmid and Grania." An older man of the neighbourhood, with but a few scattered traces of schooling about him, may tell a romantic story to account for the name. He will not tell the same story as is current in County Sligo, but in the author's opinion a pleasanter one, and more to the credit of the two lovers. The same name is given to most cromlechs wherever they are found, but that matters little to a Donegal peasant, who has his own story to tell and tells it admirably. The author met such a man on his first visit to the huge monument, an old man sitting on a dry stone wall, remarkably active, his mind as quick as his body. He told the legend with a stateliness that showed he was translating from his native Gaelic.

34. Cucogry O'Clery's residence at Kilbarron Castle

    Kilbarron · townland · Donegal

    Cucogry O'Clery, one of the Four Masters, lived quietly at Kilbarron Castle near Ballyshannon pursuing historical researches. Described as 'a mere Irishman' in an English document, his estate was forfeited to King James and he was turned out, living in poverty until 1666.

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    Realizing that he could not compile so vast a narrative single-handed, he took with him to his lonely hut his kinsmen Conary, Cucogry O’Clery and Ferfesa O’Mulconry. The second of these was, like himself, a great scholar, who took no part in politics, but lived quietly at Kilbarron Castle near Ballyshannon, pursuing his historical researches. But as was said in an English document, “‘ being a mere Irishman ’’ his estate was forfeited to King James, and he was turned out to shift as best he could. He dragged out the last years of his life in great poverty till 1666. Such was James’s method of fulfilling his promise to care for his Irish subjects, to whose ancient kings he was proud of tracing his ancestry. But who could expect anything better from the learned, but slatternly first of the Stewarts, who was destined to rule over Britain and to sow broadcast the seeds of the storm, whereof his ill-fated son was to reap the whirlwind-crop in later years?

    Under the guiding care of Michael O’Clery, his three assistants-in-chief, with the aid of certain others well versed in historical studies, continued their united efforts for nearly four years, and brought them to an end in 1636, He was both editor-in-chief

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 107

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here stood Kilbarron Castle, where Cucogry O'Clery lived. He was one of three kinsmen Michael O'Clery took to his lonely hut to help compile a vast narrative, the work that became known as the Annals. Cucogry was a great scholar who took no part in politics. He lived quietly here, near Ballyshannon, pursuing his historical researches. But an English document described him as, in its words, a mere Irishman. His estate was forfeited to King James, and he was turned out to shift as best he could. He dragged out the last years of his life in great poverty till 1666. The passage notes the irony: James had promised to care for his Irish subjects, and was proud of tracing his ancestry to their ancient kings. Yet this was his method of fulfilling that promise. The author calls James the learned but slatternly first of the Stewarts, who sowed broadcast the seeds of a storm his ill-fated son would later reap. Under Michael O'Clery's guiding care, Cucogry and his fellow assistants worked for nearly four years and brought their efforts to an end in 1636.

35. Eagle steals child from mountain brow

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    A local legend tells of a golden eagle carrying off a child from the mountain to its cliff-side nest. The distracted mother climbed down the precipice to rescue her babe while the eagles fled, and the narrator later saw the child grown into an old grey woman, having heard the tale from a man in his cabin.

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    I turned once more to the sea, then creeping cautiously along the edge I looked down into the recess, where once had been the ‘‘ Eagles’ nest.’’ My eye ranged along the cliff, when I saw movement in what I had taken to be one of its smaller projections. Instantly I drew back and sought a place from which I could watch without danger, if I should make an incautious movement. Soon I had my reward: once again I saw the golden eagle spreading his broad wings to the quiet air. He had come to the spot from which one of his kindred, perhaps a far-off ancestor, is said to have carried off a child from the brow of the mountain to be the prey of his fierce nestlings. Those who saw the theft fell on their knees and prayed with all the fervour of their Irish hearts, as the mighty bird holding the babe in his talons flew ever seaward. It seemed at first as if he would never come back, but the true men and women never ceased praying for a moment. At last the eagle turned and sailed back to his nest bearing his precious quarry, which he placed by the side of his nestlings and their dam.

    That moment the wild figure of a woman was seen rushing straight to the edge of the cliff: she looked as if she had lost her wits and as if she were going to hurl herself down into the sea. The rest would

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 15

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League in Donegal is a mountain the road passes near, and its cliffs once held an eagle's nest. The narrator came to the cliff edge and looked down into the recess where that nest had been. He saw a golden eagle spread his broad wings to the quiet air, perhaps descended from the one in the old story. The legend tells how an eagle carried off a child from the brow of the mountain, holding the babe in his talons and flying ever seaward. Those who saw the theft fell on their knees and prayed with “all the fervour of their Irish hearts.” The mighty bird seemed as if he would never come back, but the people never ceased praying for a moment. At last the eagle turned and sailed back to his nest, bearing his quarry, and placed the child by the side of his nestlings and their dam. Then the wild figure of a woman was seen rushing straight to the edge of the cliff, looking as if she had lost her wits, as if she were going to hurl herself down into the sea. She climbed down the precipice to rescue her babe, and the eagles fled. The narrator heard this tale from a man in his cabin, and later saw the child herself, grown into an old grey woman.

36. Flight of the Earls from Rathmullan

    Rathmullan · town · Donegal · 1607

    The Annals record the departure of the Earls from Rathmullan, the same place where Red Hugh O'Donnell had been betrayed years earlier. The passage describes the embarkation of a distinguished company whose flight marked the end of hopes for Irish liberty.

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    Worn out at length by their continual persecution, the two Earls determined to quit Ireland for the Continent, never to return. They must indeed have suffered severely to induce them to make a resolution at that time so alien to the natural disposition of Irishmen. The passage in the ‘‘ Annals’’ which describes their setting forth from Rathmullen, where the “‘Red Hugh’’ had been betrayed so many years before, ends with the following pathetic words wrung from the very heart of the compilers :

    ‘“ They embarked on the festival of the Holy Cross, in autumn (1607). This was a _ distinguished company, and it is certain that the sea has not wafted in modern times a number of persons in one ship more eminent in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and brave achievements than they. Would that God had permitted them to remain in their patrimonial inheritance until their children should arrive at the age of manhood! Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the counsel that

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 116

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Rathmullan in Donegal, you are passing the place where one of the most consequential departures in Irish history took place. In 1607, two Earls, worn out by continual persecution, resolved to quit Ireland for the Continent, never to return. They set forth from this town, the same place where Red Hugh O'Donnell had been betrayed years before. The Annals describe a distinguished company embarking on the festival of the Holy Cross in autumn, and say the sea had not wafted in modern times a number of persons in one ship more eminent in genealogy, heroic deeds, valour, and brave achievements. The compilers end with a lament: "Would that God had permitted them to remain in their patrimonial inheritance until their children should arrive at the age of manhood. Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the counsel that" brought them to leave. The flight marked the end of hopes for Irish liberty.

37. St. Patrick's vision and monastery on Saint's Island, Lough Derg

    near Saint's Island · townland · Clare

    St. Patrick is said to have experienced a vision of Purgatory on Saint's Island in Lough Derg, after which he consecrated the place and built a church that became a celebrated monastery. The ruins of the abbey and traces of St. Patrick's bed are still found on Saint's Island, not on the modern Station Island.

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    The Saint awoke, but he did not forget the vision which had sunk into his very being: he consecrated the place, and built a church there which developed into a celebrated monastery. The ruins of the abbey and traces of St. Patrick’s bed are to be found on Saint’s Island, not on the Station Island of modern pilgrimages, as Dr. MacDevitt has pointed out. To this there was originally a causeway Stretching to the margin of the lake, some of the ruins of which can still be seen below the surface of the water. To a spot thus consecrated by the presence of the national Saint, thousands of pilgrims come, each of whom sleeps in the ‘‘ Saint’s Bed,”’ that is, on a bare flat rock, and undergo certain severe penitential exercises. They recite the stations of the Cross, they fast, they utter the prescribed prayers. But they are not constrained to perform the extreme penitence of the earlier days, when each had to sleep stark naked in the ‘‘ Bed”’ for three days and three nights, fasting rigorously, as Colonel Wood Martin recounts.

    Happy is the penitent who repeats the Saint’s vision, when he sleeps in the ‘‘ Bed.’’ Should he be thus favoured he will without doubt escape some of the long periods of Purgatory, which bear some resemblance in duration to the epochs of geological time. At most times of the year multitudes of such pilgrims frequented the sacred spot, as they do still. Hence they caused no little trouble to the English Protestants in the early seventeenth century, who were disturbed alike by conscience and convenience.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 77

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Saint's Island, St. Patrick awoke from a vision that had sunk into his very being. He did not forget it. He consecrated the place and built a church there, which grew into a celebrated monastery. The ruins of that abbey, and traces of St. Patrick's bed, are found on Saint's Island itself, not on the Station Island of modern pilgrimages, as Dr. MacDevitt has pointed out. Originally a causeway stretched from the island to the margin of the lake. Some of its ruins can still be seen below the surface of the water. Thousands of pilgrims come to this spot, consecrated by the presence of the national Saint. Each sleeps in the "Saint's Bed," a bare flat rock, and undergoes severe penitential exercises. They recite the stations of the Cross, they fast, they utter the prescribed prayers. They are not constrained to perform the extreme penitence of earlier days, when each had to sleep stark naked in the "Bed" for three days and three nights, fasting rigorously, as Colonel Wood Martin recounts. Happy is the penitent who repeats the Saint's vision when he sleeps in the "Bed." Should he be thus favoured, he will without doubt escape some of the long periods of Purgatory. At most times of the year multitudes of such pilgrims frequented the sacred spot, as they do still. They caused no little trouble to the English Protestants in the early seventeenth century, who were disturbed alike by conscience and convenience.

38. Women pray at Columbkille's birthstone for childbirth relief

    Bellville or Gartan · townland · Donegal

    Expectant mothers kneel at Saint Columbkille's birthstone in Gartan, praying to be spared the acuter pains of childbirth. This is a striking paradox, given the Saint's noted dislike of women, yet women confidently believe prayer at his birthplace brings relief.

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    The present road on the western slope would seem to follow an ancient path: not far from its course at the entrance of a lonely valley leading by Lough Inshagh to Glenveagh is a rude flagstone still surrounded by what appears to be the foundation-ring of a cloughan, whereon the Saint was born. A fine white cross, erected by Mrs. Adair, marks that hallowed spot, to which many an emigrant still comes in the belief that he will leave all homesickness behind him. Many a woman may be seen kneeling by its side, praying to be spared the acuter pains of child-birth. It is not a little singular, that an ecclesiastic who showed such a dislike for woman as Columbkille did, should be trusted for aid in such matters. It has been said that he would have no cows near any of his monasteries, for he said, ‘* Where there is a cow, there is a woman, and where there is a woman there is mischief.’’ Yet expectant mothers confidently believe that they, win relief by prayer at the stone on which he was born. I have seen them by twos and threes with that devout reverence which is so common in Ireland, and their lips moving all but silently, as they crossed themselves from time to time. ‘Then they rose from their knees with brightening eyes and went on their way, their hearts throbbing with peace and hope.

    That ancient hut would have a diameter of from

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 85

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Bellville or Gartan, there is a rude flagstone where Saint Columbkille was born. It stands at the entrance of a lonely valley leading by Lough Inshagh to Glenveagh, on the western slope where the road seems to follow an ancient path. A fine white cross, erected by Mrs Adair, marks the spot. Many an emigrant still comes here, believing he will leave all homesickness behind him. But it is women who come most devoutly. They kneel by the stone, praying to be spared the acuter pains of childbirth. This is a striking paradox. Columbkille was an ecclesiastic who showed a marked dislike of women. He would have no cows near any of his monasteries, saying, "Where there is a cow, there is a woman, and where there is a woman there is mischief." Yet expectant mothers confidently believe they win relief by prayer at his birthstone. I have seen them by twos and threes, with that devout reverence so common in Ireland, their lips moving all but silently, crossing themselves from time to time. Then they rose from their knees with brightening eyes and went on their way, their hearts throbbing with peace and hope.

39. Carnaween mountain cromlech in the lovers' flight

    near Carnaween · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    In the Diarmid and Grania legend, the lovers alternated nightly between the cromlech at Carnaween and the one at Kilclooney, travelling about twelve miles each afternoon. Finn pursued them to the mountain of Carnaween, where he found the cromlech but no lovers.

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    At Tara, Finn and his warriors, Cormac and his train slept long into the following day: at last they woke up, rubbing their eyes and wondering what had happened to them. Cormac, when he came to himself, clearly suspected some enchantment or other mischief ; the first thing which he did was to look for his daughter, that he might see to the completion of her nuptials; but she was nowhere to be found. Similarly, Finn in his turn looked round for Diarmid, who was equally invisible. At first he began to reproach his son Oisin; but the bard stoutly denied that he had helped the lovers, nor could he tell where they were now hiding. Last of all, Finn had recourse to his divining tooth: ‘‘ Where are the lovers?’’ he asked. The tooth replied plainly but vaguely, ‘‘ They are on the heather.’’ Forthwith Finn set off on his way in pursuit: he went straight to the mountain of Carnaween, where he found the cromlech but no lovers. Thereupon he once more applied his thumb to the tooth, asking the same question. The tooth once more made answer in a somewhat similar fashion, ‘‘ They are on the sand.’’ Finn straightway took his journey to Kilclooney, where he found the cromlech, but no lovers. Herein the skill of Diarmid’s simple stratagem appears, which was able to mock the famous tooth.

    Thus the lovers were able to enjoy the delights of

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 81

    As the companion tells it

    This is the mountain of Carnaween, in Donegal. In the old legend of Diarmid and Grania, the lovers hid here from Finn, sleeping each night beneath a cromlech on the mountain. The pursuit began at Tara. Finn and his warriors, Cormac and his train, had slept long into the following day. When they woke, Cormac looked at once for his daughter, to see her nuptials completed, but she was nowhere to be found. Finn looked for Diarmid, who was equally invisible. He reproached his son Oisin, but the bard stoutly denied helping the lovers and could not say where they were hiding. Then Finn had recourse to his divining tooth. He asked, 'Where are the lovers?' The tooth replied, 'They are on the heather.' Finn set off straight for the mountain of Carnaween, where he found the cromlech but no lovers. He applied his thumb to the tooth again and asked the same question. The tooth answered, 'They are on the sand.' Finn took his journey to Kilclooney, where he found the cromlech but no lovers. Diarmid's simple stratagem had mocked the famous tooth.

40. Columbkille's birthstone and emigrant pilgrimage

    Bellville or Gartan · townland · Donegal

    At the entrance of a lonely valley leading by Lough Inshagh to Glenveagh, a rude flagstone surrounded by the foundation-ring of a cloughan marks the Saint's birthplace. A white cross erected by Mrs. Adair identifies the spot, to which emigrants come believing they will leave all homesickness behind.

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    The present road on the western slope would seem to follow an ancient path: not far from its course at the entrance of a lonely valley leading by Lough Inshagh to Glenveagh is a rude flagstone still surrounded by what appears to be the foundation-ring of a cloughan, whereon the Saint was born. A fine white cross, erected by Mrs. Adair, marks that hallowed spot, to which many an emigrant still comes in the belief that he will leave all homesickness behind him. Many a woman may be seen kneeling by its side, praying to be spared the acuter pains of child-birth. It is not a little singular, that an ecclesiastic who showed such a dislike for woman as Columbkille did, should be trusted for aid in such matters. It has been said that he would have no cows near any of his monasteries, for he said, ‘* Where there is a cow, there is a woman, and where there is a woman there is mischief.’’ Yet expectant mothers confidently believe that they, win relief by prayer at the stone on which he was born. I have seen them by twos and threes with that devout reverence which is so common in Ireland, and their lips moving all but silently, as they crossed themselves from time to time. ‘Then they rose from their knees with brightening eyes and went on their way, their hearts throbbing with peace and hope.

    That ancient hut would have a diameter of from

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 85

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Bellville or Gartan, at the entrance of a lonely valley leading by Lough Inshagh to Glenveagh, a rude flagstone still sits surrounded by what appears to be the foundation-ring of a cloughan. This is where Saint Columbkille was born. A fine white cross, erected by Mrs. Adair, marks the spot. Many an emigrant still comes here in the belief that he will leave all homesickness behind him. Many a woman may be seen kneeling by its side, praying to be spared the acuter pains of childbirth. It is a singular thing that an ecclesiastic who showed such a dislike for woman as Columbkille did should be trusted for aid in such matters. He would have no cows near any of his monasteries, saying, "Where there is a cow, there is a woman, and where there is a woman there is mischief." Yet expectant mothers confidently believe they win relief by prayer at the stone on which he was born. The writer has seen them by twos and threes, with that devout reverence so common in Ireland, their lips moving almost silently, crossing themselves from time to time. Then they rose from their knees with brightening eyes and went on their way, their hearts throbbing with peace and hope.

41. Dominican Abbey at Athenry and the Walsh monument

    Athenry · townland · Galway

    The bones of three hundred Walshes killed at Drogheda were carried across Ireland to rest in the Dominican Abbey at Athenry, where their monument may still be seen, testifying to the Irishman's attachment to his native place.

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    has so long stood in the way of those who have sought to govern him from the outside. His shapely mountains, his blue lakes, his winding rivers, his vast deserts of quaking bog, his towering cliffs and lonely inlets, his innumerable islands and his ancient faith are dear to him as his heart’s blood. It is even said and believed of him by many of his kindred, that his unquiet spirit cannot rest if his body be not laid in his native earth. When Cromwell had put to the sword three hundred of the Walshes after the sack of Drogheda, their kinsmen bore them straight across the island, that their bones might rest at last in the Dominican Abbey in Athenry. Their monument may be seen to-day to tell of the Irishman’s deathless attachment to the place where he was born.

    Perhaps no other nation keeps in memory so faithfully the traditions and struggles of the past: this wild western county has been the very centre of both; the very names of the villages, peaks, rivers and islands are redolent of the memory of the past, when Ireland was the home of the learned, when her missionaries and scholars found their way not only to Scotland, but to many parts of Europe besides. Then, indeed, she was the ‘‘ Island of the Saints,”’ if now She is ‘‘ the distressful country ’’; then it may be that Brandan, Saint and voyager, was actually the first European to set foot on the shores of Florida. I recalled the Books of Kells and Durrow, ‘penned and illuminated by the careful hands of Irish Monks, and still unsurpassed in their own kind. The National Library contains amongst its choicest treasures the ‘“ Annals of the Four Masters,’’ which remains the most remarkable collection of national tradition and history in western Europe. I remembered the exquisitely carved crosses which I had seen in so many places, and it seemed to me that Ireland was indeed a land of the past, though none can say what future may yet lie before her.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere close to Athenry stood the Dominican Abbey, and it holds a story that gets to the heart of what this country means to the people who belong to it. The Irishman's shapely mountains, his blue lakes, his winding rivers, his vast deserts of quaking bog, his towering cliffs and lonely inlets, his innumerable islands and his ancient faith are dear to him as his heart's blood. It is even said and believed of him by many of his kindred that his unquiet spirit cannot rest if his body be not laid in his native earth. When Cromwell had put to the sword three hundred of the Walshes after the sack of Drogheda, their kinsmen bore them straight across the island, that their bones might rest at last in the Dominican Abbey in Athenry. Their monument may be seen to-day to tell of the Irishman's deathless attachment to the place where he was born. Perhaps no other nation keeps in memory so faithfully the traditions and struggles of the past, and this wild western county has been the very centre of both. The very names of the villages, peaks, rivers and islands are redolent of the memory of the past, when Ireland was the home of the learned, when her missionaries and scholars found their way not only to Scotland but to many parts of Europe besides. Then, indeed, she was the Island of the Saints. So when you pass the abbey, remember those three hundred Walshes, carried the width of Ireland just to lie in native ground.

42. Doon Holy Well: pilgrimage, healing and ritual circuits

    Doon · townland · Donegal

    The Holy Well of Doon, blessed by the Lector O'Friel, is an abundant iron-flavoured spring near a prominent Rock. Pilgrims perform stations of the Cross, make the destul (sacred sunwise circuit) on bended knees up to nine times, drink the water, and leave rags on bushes and crutches as tokens of faith. On August 17th, the Feast of the Assumption, as many as seven hundred pilgrims gather.

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    The bushes beneath the Rock are covered with bits of rag and other personal tokens of faith. Just as the desiul has come down from pagan times, there can be little doubt that the devotees believe that their diseases actually enter into the rags and similar tokens which they have fastened to the available twigs. On 17th August, the day of the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin, as many as seven

    170 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 76

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here is the Holy Well of Doon, blessed by the Lector O'Friel, an iron-flavoured spring near a prominent Rock. Pilgrims make the destul from pagan times on bended knees up to nine times, drink the water, and leave rags and crutches as tokens of faith. The devotees believe their diseases enter into the rags fastened to twigs. On August 17th, the Feast of the Assumption, as many as seven hundred gather.

43. Errigal, the White Arrow, and Noah's Ark legend

    Errigal · minor feature · Donegal

    Errigal, meaning 'white arrow,' resembles a huge flint arrowhead with a double-peaked summit linked by a narrow ridge. Local tradition holds that Noah's Ark rested between the two peaks when it was in Ireland.

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    In the heart of County Donegal the Derryveagh Mountains, running parallel to the striking Errigal group, rise from the expanse of russet-brown bog with bare and precipitous flanks. Built up of white quartzite, when the sun lights up their abrupt slopes, they tower into the clear blue sky, dazzling, white, majestic, glittering like a lesser Sierra Nevada. By the fine taste of the ancient Irish the separate heights have each its descriptive name exactly fitting its shape or appearance and sometimes tinged with poetic fancy. Muckish, or ‘‘ the pig’s back ”’ stretches its broad ridge to the north-east, until it takes the final form of a shining peak fronting the little town of Creeslough. Parted from it by two lesser eminences and _ that wonderfully picturesque ridge, the Beaghy, towards the south, Errigal or ‘‘ white arrow ’”’ cuts the air like a huge pyramid and closely resembles a flint arrow-head of the older Stone Age. From some directions its double-peaked summit is sharpened into a single point: but for the most part the two peaks are to be seen linked together by a narrow ridge. The Ark of Noah is said to have rested between them, as it may well have done, when it was in Ireland! Beneath its northern slope and under the Beaghy lies the deep-set, wild-looking Altan Lough, into which a stone might almost be thrown from the summit, so precipitously does the mountain rise from the dark waters.

    Farther to the south stands the great knob of Slieve Snacht, or ‘‘snow mountain,’ like the crystalline dome of some titanic temple, which is the last important summit of the Derryveagh Mountains proper. Let the unwary traveller, who has rejoiced

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 3

    As the companion tells it

    Errigal stands in the heart of County Donegal, where the Derryveagh Mountains rise from russet-brown bog with bare, precipitous flanks. Built of white quartzite, when the sun lights up its abrupt slopes it towers dazzling and white into the sky, glittering like a lesser Sierra Nevada. The name Errigal means white arrow, and it cuts the air like a huge pyramid, closely resembling a flint arrowhead of the older Stone Age. Its double-peaked summit is sharpened into a single point from some directions, but for the most part two peaks are seen linked by a narrow ridge. Local tradition says the Ark of Noah rested between those two peaks, when it was in Ireland. The ancient Irish gave each of the separate heights in this range its own descriptive name, exactly fitting its shape or appearance, sometimes tinged with poetic fancy. Muckish, the pig's back, stretches its broad ridge to the north-east, until it takes the form of a shining peak fronting the little town of Creeslough. Parted from Muckish by two lesser eminences and that picturesque ridge, the Beaghy, towards the south, Errigal rises. Beneath its northern slope and under the Beaghy lies the deep-set, wild-looking Altan Lough, into which a stone might almost be thrown from the summit, so precipitously does the mountain rise from the dark waters.

44. Father MacFadden's war on shebeens and his exile

    near Derrybeg · town · Donegal

    Father MacFadden waged war on illicit drinking dens, driving patrons out with his blackthorn and physically ejecting proprietors. After the tragedy at Derrybeg, his Church sent him abroad for some years before he returned to his parishioners, who loved him.

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    Though something of a rebel, he was a man of singular eloquence and a model parish priest. One of his most useful habits was the war which he made upon the numerous ‘“‘ shebeens ’’ opened for illicit drinking, which he would enter, blackthorn in hand. If the ‘“‘ boys ’”’ refused to quit the place at his command, he would drive them out with his blackthorn; if the proprietor ventured to protest, the undaunted little priest would forthwith ‘‘ lick him out of his own house.’’ What is more, when the culprit came to Confession, he would receive such a penance as made him hesitate to disobey ecclesiastical authority in the future. To the sick and the poor, like many another of his order in the west of Ireland, Father MacFadden was a constant and kind friend, stinting himself to feed the hungry. After the terrible tragedy at Derrybeg he was sent abroad for some years by his Church, which seldom falls short of the ‘* wisdom of the serpent,’’ however little it may usually achieve the ‘‘ guilelessness of the dove.” But he had returned to his parishioners, who loved him well, in time for me to see him, and to their supreme content. ‘‘ May the holy Virgin and the Saints bless him! ”’

    These were the last words of the driver, as he bade me good evening at the turn of the road leading to Crolly Bridge, where I got down truly grateful for my lift of four miles Irish and expressing my gratitude in a tangible form well understood all the world over. Soon I was seated before a plain but

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 9

    As the companion tells it

    Derrybeg is a place the road passes through in Donegal. Father MacFadden, a man of singular eloquence and something of a rebel, was a model parish priest here. He made war on the shebeens, the illicit drinking dens that had opened in numbers. He would enter them with his blackthorn in hand. If the boys refused to leave at his command, he drove them out with it. If the proprietor ventured to protest, the undaunted little priest would "lick him out of his own house." When the culprit came to Confession, he would receive such a penance as made him hesitate to disobey ecclesiastical authority in the future. To the sick and the poor, Father MacFadden was a constant and kind friend, stinting himself to feed the hungry, like many another of his order in the west of Ireland. After the terrible tragedy, his Church sent him abroad for some years. The Church seldom falls short of the "wisdom of the serpent," however little it may usually achieve the "guilelessness of the dove." But he returned to his parishioners, who loved him well, to their supreme content. A driver spoke the last words on the turn of the road to Crolly Bridge: "May the holy Virgin and the Saints bless him!"

45. Finn MacCumhal's stag hunt to the Murlin River

    Glencolumbkille · town · Donegal

    A legend preserved by Manus O'Donnell tells of Finn MacCumhal hunting a marvellous stag in southern Donegal. The stag crossed the Murlin River and stopped on the far bank, but Finn's tireless dog Bran refused to follow, revealing a dark mystery. Finn's divining tooth prophesied the birth of Columbkille and the sanctity of the glen.

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    MacCumhal, or MacCool, which links the former national hero with the future Saint. This great warrior and sportsman was hunting in southern Donegal when an unusually fine stag appeared in front of him, and at once attracted the attention of his famous dog, Bran, and himself. He set off in pursuit with Bran leading the way: with perfect ease the stag kept well in front of them, until it came to the River Murlin. Without an apparent effort it crossed the stream and stood perfectly still on the farther bank. To the intense astonishment of Finn, his hitherto tireless dog refused to cross the river, but remained standing rooted to the spot on the same bank with himself. Bran had never been known to fail before, never a hart, however swift, had escaped him, and later he met his death in a chase too great for his strength.

    The chieftain knew that some dark mystery overhung the dog’s present conduct: resolved to fathom it to the bottom he consulted his ‘‘ divining tooth,”’ which immediately gave him a clear answer. ‘‘ A child Columba will be born in due time of the stock of Cormac MacArt, who will be a great light in Ireland, and found many churches and monasteries. The region to which the stag has fled will be sacred to him, and a place of refuge to all succeeding generations.’ Manus adds that in his lifetime, in the fifteenth century, the way whereby the stag had fled was still known as “‘ the path of the stag.’’ I heard one old man use these words in the course of ordinary conversation ; but I could not induce him to explain them; either he knew little of the legend, or he refused to tell me all that he knew. That often happens with the Irish country-folk, who dread any ridicule being poured upon traditions in which they themselves believe with all their heart. Still it was singular to hear so much as the mention of the name, which, no doubt, had been handed down to the old man through a long series of ancestors.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 91

    As the companion tells it

    As the road passes through Glencolumbkille, you are in the country where Finn MacCumhal once hunted. Manus O'Donnell preserved the story in the fifteenth century. Finn, the great warrior and sportsman, was hunting in southern Donegal when an unusually fine stag appeared before him. His famous dog Bran was on it at once, and Finn set off in pursuit with Bran leading the way. The stag kept well ahead with perfect ease, running until it reached the River Murlin. It crossed the stream without apparent effort and stood perfectly still on the farther bank. Then came the astonishment. Bran, who had never been known to fail, who had never let a hart escape however swift, refused to cross. He stood rooted to the spot on the same bank as Finn. Finn knew some dark mystery lay behind the dog's conduct. He consulted his divining tooth, and it gave him a clear answer. The words were these: a child Columba will be born in due time of the stock of Cormac MacArt, who will be a great light in Ireland and found many churches and monasteries. The region to which the stag has fled will be sacred to him, and a place of refuge to all succeeding generations. Manus adds that in his own lifetime, in the fifteenth century, the way the stag had fled was still known as the path of the stag. The author of this book heard one old man use those words in ordinary conversation but could not get him to explain them. Either the man knew little of the legend or he refused to tell all he knew. That often happens with the Irish country-folk, who dread ridicule being poured upon traditions in which they themselves believe with all their heart.

46. Lake-horse folklore at Slieve League tarns

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    One of the tarns of Slieve Liag is said to be haunted by the lake-horse, a creature of Irish folklore reported in almost every lonely tarn. Witnesses positively affirm having seen it, and to deny its existence gives serious offence.

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    In front frowned another Aghla deep in shadow, the one which towers above Lough Fin, in whose recesses is a lonely tarn said to be the home of a weird monster half horse, half gigantic eel. This lake-horse makes persistent appearances in Irish folklore: it is said to haunt one of the tarns of Slieve Liag, as has been already noted; indeed almost every lonely tarn is said to be one of the places of its dwelling. Nor are there wanting those who positively affirm that they have seen it. To deny its existence is a waste of breath: the informant will reply, ‘‘ Sure and does your honour think that I would be telling you a lie?’’ To that pertinent question there is no satisfactory answer, indeed any answer implying doubt is apt to give serious offence. For myself I have never been so fortunate as to set eyes upon the mysterious monster, perhaps because my imagination is too limited, perhaps because I am not the seventh son of a seventh son, perhaps because I was not born. under the right planet. But then I have never seen or heard anything out of the common at spiritualistic séances, so that my judgment is not worthy of any confidence.

    Far to the east the Blue Stack Mountains cut the clear air, their red granite mass deeply purpled in the sunset and the subduing light of distance. Nearer again was Inver towards the head of Donegal Bay, where twelve feet beneath the surface of the bog a primitive log-built sleeping-hut of two stories was unearthed by the turf-cutters at their laborious toil. A model of it and the wild scene of its discovery may be seen in the museum of the Royal Irish Academy in Dublin, which contains a most remarkable and varied collection of prehistoric relics. In the dark valley immediately in front, now fired by the glories of the sinking sun, the men of old had

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 17

    As the companion tells it

    The mountain you pass near is Slieve League, and one of its tarns is said to be home to the lake-horse, a creature half horse, half gigantic eel. This lake-horse is not unique to this place. It makes persistent appearances in Irish folklore, said to haunt almost every lonely tarn in the country. Nor are there wanting those who positively affirm that they have seen it. To deny its existence is a waste of breath. The informant will reply, "Sure and does your honour think that I would be telling you a lie?" To that pertinent question there is no satisfactory answer. Any answer implying doubt is apt to give serious offence. The author of the account confesses he has never been fortunate enough to set eyes upon the mysterious monster. Perhaps, he says, his imagination is too limited. Perhaps he is not the seventh son of a seventh son. Perhaps he was not born under the right planet. He adds that he has never seen or heard anything out of the common at spiritualistic séances either, so his judgment is not worthy of any confidence. A similar creature is said to dwell in a lonely tarn in the recesses of the mountain above Lough Fin, where another Aghla towers deep in shadow.

47. Merrows sought on Crohy Head cliffs

    Crohy Head · promontory · Donegal

    An elderly Donegal man recounted looking for merrows (mermaids) on the cliffs of Crohy Head in his youth. He told of a fisherman who married a merrow after stealing part of her clothing, until she found it and vanished back to the sea.

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    Before leaving fairies and wise-women, I must call attention to another kind of being, who is met with in the folk-lore of many parts of Ireland, and is not absent from that of Donegal. The sea has its maidens as well as the land: the Irish call them ‘* merrows,’’ the English ‘‘ mermaids,’’ words which are virtually a translation the one of the other. The same elderly man told me of a young fisherman who had caught one such asleep, and stealing some part of her raiment had awaked her and induced her to become his wife. They had lived very happily together, until she had found the missing piece of clothing, and taking it in her hand had vanished to join her relatives in the sea. Her husband never married again, but some of her children were ancestors of several of the good families of the neighbourhood. He gave me their names, but they need not be set down here: their descendants might not like it, and the royal princess of the sea would be the last to wish to have her weakness for an ordinary fisherman proclaimed broadcast. My informant clearly believed that he was telling the simple truth, though he himself had never seen a ‘‘ merrow,”’ though in his young days he had often looked for one on the cliffs of Crohy Head and the beach of Aranmore.

    It is no long step to take from fairies to witches, of whom I have seen several, though none of them deigned to give me any evidence of her supernatural powers. I found them as harmless as they were ugly, though their neighbours dreaded to cast eyes upon them. They were believed to take the shape of hares, which at that time were not eaten by the peasantry of the western coast; at least of Donegal.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 71

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere about Crohy Head, an elderly Donegal man once told a story he believed was simple truth. He spoke of the merrows, the sea's maidens, called mermaids in English. The Irish word and the English are virtually a translation of one another, and the same old man who told the tale had himself, in his young days, often looked for a merrow on these cliffs and on the beach of Aranmore. He never saw one. His story went like this. A young fisherman caught a merrow asleep. He stole some part of her raiment, woke her, and induced her to become his wife. They lived happily together, until she found the missing piece of clothing. She took it in her hand and vanished to join her relatives in the sea. Her husband never married again. Some of her children were ancestors of several of the good families of the neighbourhood. The old man gave their names, but the writer of the account left them out. He said the descendants might not like it, and that the royal princess of the sea would be the last to wish her weakness for an ordinary fisherman proclaimed broadcast. The man telling all this clearly believed he was telling the simple truth, though he had never seen a merrow himself.

48. Michael O'Clery's noble ancestry near Ballyshannon

    Ballyshannon · town · Donegal · 1575–1643

    Michael O'Clery (1575–1643), chief of the Four Masters, was descended from a noble house whose estate lay near Ballyshannon. His family had at all times been famous as poets and scholars.

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    present a slight sketch of one of them, who was alike their chief, their guide, and the driving force of their devoted labour. Michael O’Clery (1575-1643) was descended from a noble house, whose estate lay near Ballyshannon, and who had at all times been famous as poets and scholars. He received the early part of his education at various monastic schools in Ireland; from early youth he showed himself always to be a deeply interested student of Irish traditions and history. Either just before or soon after he had entered the Franciscan monastery at Louvain, he took Franciscan Orders, but never relaxed his historical researches. The guardian of the convent, whose name, Macanward, has an Irish sound, soon recognized his special gifts and his vital concern in the history of his native land. In 1620 he sent O’Clery over to Ireland on a roving commission to search out and collect as many Irish manuscripts as had survived.

    The great scholar, now in the prime of his life, rejoiced greatly in his task: fervent patriot as he was, he had got work to his mind and he did it with uncommon thoroughness. He spent fifteen laborious years in gathering, copying, abstracting, annotating and arranging a vast number of manuscripts, which would have been of priceless value to-day had they escaped the malice of time and the destructive madness of man. During the whole of this period he was travelling over Ireland, often at great personal risk in those disturbed times, resting now at one Franciscan monastery, now at another. At Athlone, for instance, in 1630, he put the finishing touches to his list of all of the ‘‘ Kings of Ireland ’’ with dates and notes of which the original manuscript still survives in the Burgundian Library of Brussels. About the same time he had completed his ‘‘ Book of Invasions,’’ which describes the inroads and settle ments of the various races which found their way to Ireland. This interesting work is still extant and to

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 106

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Ballyshannon, this is the country of Michael O'Clery's people. He was born in 1575, descended from a noble house whose estate lay near the town, a family famous at all times as poets and scholars. From early youth he was a deeply interested student of Irish traditions and history. He was educated at various monastic schools in Ireland before taking Franciscan orders, either just before or soon after entering the Franciscan monastery at Louvain. The guardian of that convent, whose name Macanward has an Irish sound, recognised his special gifts and his vital concern for the history of his native land. In 1620 he sent O'Clery back to Ireland on a roving commission to search out and collect every Irish manuscript that had survived. He spent fifteen laborious years at the task, gathering, copying, abstracting, annotating and arranging a vast number of manuscripts, travelling over Ireland often at great personal risk in those disturbed times, resting now at one Franciscan monastery, now at another. At Athlone in 1630 he put the finishing touches to his list of all the Kings of Ireland with dates and notes, the original manuscript still surviving in the Burgundian Library of Brussels. About the same time he completed his Book of Invasions, describing the inroads and settlements of the various races which found their way to Ireland, a work still extant. He died in 1643.

49. O'Donnell's Castle and Franciscan Abbey at Donegal

    Donegal · town · Donegal

    The Annals of the Four Masters describe the chieftain who built a castle and a Franciscan monastery at Donegal. He was renowned for his hospitality, protection of the Church, and military raids against the English, and died at his fortress in Donegal.

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    ‘“ This O’Donnell was the full moon of hospitality and nobility of the north, the most genial and valiant, the most prudent in war and peace, and of the best jurisdiction, law, and rule of all the Gaels in Ireland. For there was no defence made in Tyrconnell during his time, except to close the doors against the wind; the best protector of the Church and the learned, a man who had given great alms in honour of the Lord of the elements; the man by whom a castle was first raised and erected at Donegal, that it might serve as a sustaining bulwark for his descendants; and a monastery of Friars de Observantia in Tyrconnell, namely the monastery at Donegal; a man who had made predatory excursions around through Ireland, and a man who may justly be styled the Augustus of north-west Europe. He died after having gained the victory over the devil and the world, and after Extreme Unction and good penance, at his own fortress in Donegal.’’

    Such is the strongly coloured portrait of the founder of the abbey, limned to the life by his monkish admirers. It may be noted that the phrase ‘* predatory excursions ’’ simply means raids upon the English garrison, whom he considered it part of his duty to harass to the best of his power. Nor can the picture be deemed overdrawn, notwithstanding

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 104

    As the companion tells it

    Coming up now is Donegal town, where the Annals of the Four Masters say an O'Donnell chieftain first raised a castle and founded a Franciscan monastery. They called him the full moon of hospitality and nobility of the north, and the Augustus of north-west Europe. He was praised as the best protector of the Church and the learned, a man of great alms, prudent in war and peace. His admirers wrote that during his time in Tyrconnell there was no defence needed except to close the doors against the wind. The predatory excursions the annals mention were raids on the English garrison, whom he saw it as his duty to harass. He died at his own fortress in Donegal, after Extreme Unction and penance, having, as they put it, gained victory over the devil and the world. The castle was meant to serve as a sustaining bulwark for his descendants. The monastery was for Friars de Observantia.

50. Ruined clochán below Kilmacrenan graveyard, possible Columbkille cell

    Kilmacrenan · town · Donegal · 500–600

    A roofless little clochán in a green field below the Kilmacrenan graveyard is a ruined survival of the first days of the monastery, with a tiny original door barely two feet in height. It may have been in existence when Columbkille was learning the religious life and could even have been the cell in which he slept or kept his vigils.

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    The original door, in great part, is left; it is not much more than two feet in height, breadth and depth, so that the monks who slept in it would have to crawl through it on hands and knees. It is said that they and their forbears slept in the attitude of sittin down leaning against the bare walls of such buildings. It is quite likely that the rest of the cells at the foundation of the original community were of this kind, clustering together like the bee-skeps of a former generation in an old-fashioned garden. It is the one solitary relic of the fifth and sixth centuries left to tell the tale of a humbler foundation for men no less devout, no less scholarly than their betterhoused successors. This very cell may well have been in existence when he was learning the elements of the religious life. It may even have been the one in which he slept or kept his vigils in those far-off days.

    ‘When he grew older he was sent to Saint Finnian’s school at Moville, in County Down, from which in due time he passed on to one of the most famous schools of his day at Clonard, on the Boyne, to be under the tuition of either the same or another more celebrated Saint Finnian. The rules of those primitive communities were very strict; the abbot reigned with absolute authority over monks and novices alike. But their first care was for the poor, whom they served with rare unselfishness and brotherly kindness. In like manner they kept open house for all strangers, on the advent of any of whom the rigour of the rules was to a certain extent relaxed. Yet the hardship of their life never acted prejudicially upon their health, for they were a notoriously longlived race. No doubt the fact that they were sheltered from the continuous conflicts of their country helped them to reach extreme old age. Moreover, even at that time the monks were learning to be the greatest illuminators of manuscripts in Europe.

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 88

    As the companion tells it

    The road takes you through Kilmacrenan, in Donegal, where a ruined clochán stands roofless in a green field below the graveyard. It is a stone cell from the fifth or sixth century, and its original door still survives, barely two feet in height, breadth, and depth. A monk entering would have had to crawl through on hands and knees. Those who slept inside sat leaning against the bare walls. The cells of the original community likely clustered together like bee-skeps in an old garden. This is the one surviving relic from those first centuries, a humble foundation for men no less devout and no less scholarly than their better-housed successors. It may have been standing when Columbkille was learning the elements of the religious life. It may even have been the cell where he slept or kept his vigils. When he grew older he was sent to Saint Finnian's school at Moville in County Down, and from there to Clonard on the Boyne, to study under Saint Finnian. The rules of those primitive communities were strict. The abbot held absolute authority over monks and novices alike. Their first care was for the poor, whom they served with rare unselfishness and brotherly kindness. They kept open house for all strangers, relaxing the rigour of their rules when visitors arrived. The hardship of their life never told on their health, for they were a notoriously long-lived race. Shelter from the continuous conflicts of their country helped them reach extreme old age. Even at that time, these monks were learning to become the greatest illuminators of manuscripts in Europe.

51. The Spaniard's Church on the road from Carrick to Kilcar

    Kilcar · town · Donegal

    A ruined church known as 'The Spaniard's Church' stands by the old road from Carrick to Kilcar, said to have been built with gold taken from the girdle of a dying Spanish sailor whom Father Carr had absolved after a shipwreck. Locals firmly maintain the truth of the tradition and resent any scepticism from visitors.

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    In after years Father Carr caused a church to be built with the money taken from the girdle, which lies ruined by the side of the old road from Carrick to Kilcar, and is known to this day by the name of ‘“‘ The Spaniard’s Church.’’ I have seen the venerable ruin more than once, and the only doubt in my own mind is whether the church is not of an older date than the story. However that may be, it is a beautiful story, which may well be true in essence, as the slope of the cliff down which Father Carr climbed is quite possible for anyone who is a trained climber. Let no sceptical traveller dare to hint a doubt of its truth amongst the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, lest he be scouted as a heretic and unbeliever, if indeed he fare no worse at their hands. The Irish are tenacious of their traditions, which they hand down from parent to child and keep firmly fixed in their:-memory. Nor does the story

    32 HAUNTS OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    As you come through Kilcar in Donegal, there's a ruined church by the old road from Carrick that people still call the Spaniard's Church. The story goes that Father Carr absolved a dying Spanish sailor after a shipwreck, and used gold from the man's girdle to build the church. The writer admits he wonders whether the church might actually be older than the tale, but calls it a beautiful story that may well be true in essence. He warns that no sceptical traveller should dare to hint a doubt among the people of the neighbourhood, lest he be scouted as a heretic and unbeliever, if indeed he fare no worse. The Irish are tenacious of their traditions, handing them down from parent to child and keeping them firmly fixed in memory.

52. Tory Island's king and customs of resistance

    Tory Island · townland · Donegal

    The islanders of Tory pay no rent, rates, or taxes, and would stone any collector off the island. They are governed by a king who, next to the priest, exercises near-absolute authority; thirty years prior the king was a dwarf of great intelligence who ruled wisely.

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    There were no roads in it until the lighthouse was built, an eminently necessary protection against its formidable cliffs. The island is closely connected with the life of St. Columba; his round tower, but for a portion of the cap, is entire; it is the shortest and one of the rudest of its kind. It is not likely that he caused it to be built; but it does not date very far from the foundation of his church during his missionary life in his native county. Of the church itself, or of the later building which followed it, a few crumbling ruins mark the site, while his tau-shaped cross stands where he himself may have set it. The islanders are a hardy race of fishermen, who pay neither rent, rates, nor taxes; any who presumed to collect such dues would be summarily pebbled off the island with fairly large stones. They are governed by a king, who, next to the priest, exercises all but absolute authority over them. Thirty years ago the king was a dwarf, repulsive-looking but possessed of great intelligence, who ruled over his race with a firm and wise control.

    The Sligo steamer on its bi-weekly voyages, when the sea is sufficiently calm, stands at anchor near the coast and the islanders come off in their boats to receive their goods. Most of these are fine stout fishing-boats, which will carry a fair burden, and are able to face a comparatively rough sea. It is a most interesting sight to see the stores unshipped, and to hear the guttural Gaelic of the islanders, which in many cases, is still their only language. During the winter months the steamer is unable to halt at Tory: one of the captains told me that as late as May, he had been unable to land any goods for six successive weeks. What the islanders can do without these necessary stores, it is not easy to imagine. When the sea is rough, they have not their largest resource, they cannot fish, and the barren soil does not produce

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 72

    As the companion tells it

    Somewhere around here lies Tory Island, off the Donegal coast. There were no roads on it until the lighthouse was built, a necessary protection against its formidable cliffs. The island is closely tied to St. Columba. His round tower, missing only a portion of its cap, still stands entire. It is the shortest and one of the rudest of its kind. It is not likely that Columba himself caused it to be built, but it does not date very far from the foundation of his church during his missionary life in his native county. Of the church itself, or the later building that followed it, only a few crumbling ruins mark the site, while his tau-shaped cross stands where he himself may have set it. The islanders are a hardy race of fishermen. They pay neither rent, rates, nor taxes. Any who presumed to collect such dues would be, in the source's words, summarily pebbled off the island with fairly large stones. They are governed by a king, who next to the priest exercises all but absolute authority over them. Thirty years ago the king was a dwarf, repulsive-looking but possessed of great intelligence, who ruled over his race with a firm and wise control. The Sligo steamer calls twice weekly when the sea is calm enough, anchoring near the coast while the islanders come off in their boats to receive their goods. Many of these are fine stout fishing-boats, able to face a comparatively rough sea. The islanders speak a guttural Gaelic, still their only language in many cases. During winter the steamer cannot stop at Tory. One captain said that as late as May he had been unable to land goods for six successive weeks. When the sea is rough the islanders cannot fish, and the barren soil does not produce.

53. Vassals' lament at Rathmullan and Lough Swilly

    Rathmullan · town · Donegal · 1607

    As the Earls' ship sailed out onto Lough Swilly, their ancient vassals stood bare-headed on the shore of Rathmullan, raising a keen of lamentation. The onlookers then departed sorrowfully, carrying the oral tradition of their heroes' deeds to be retold on winter nights.

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    Those pathetic words give a clear insight into the patriotic temper of the annalists; they may have a little overshot their mark in the praise bestowed upon the company on board the ship, and some of their terms are curious. Beyond a doubt the high birth of the fugitives appealed most strongly to their own aristocratic prejudices. Nor is that reverence for birth by any means extinct in Ireland, or in England for that matter, while it is fully as strong in Scotland. But no reader can fail to sympathize with these earnest patriots, who saw all hopes of the freedom of their country cut off with the flight of the Earls. Truly those of their ancient vassals who stood bare-headed upon the shore of Rathmullen to bid them a last farewell would raise a keen of lamentation as piercing as if they had been accompanying their lifeless bodies to the grave. When the sail disappeared from sight, with it would disappear the high hopes and-heroic endurance which the example of these great men had done so much to keep alive for so many years: as night settled on the blue waters of Lough Swilly, night would sink upon their souls, and they would go sorrowing away to tell the story of their heroes by the peat-smoke on many a winter’s night.

    In the end the two Earls and their friends found their way to Rome, where they were warmly welcomed by the Pope, who with perfect justice looked upon them as the true and tried champions of his cause in Ireland. That they had undoubtedly been; but they had been much more than that; they had been the untiring champions of Ireland itself in its fruitless struggle against the English supremacy. They did not leave their country until it seemed no longer possible to win its freedom. They endured

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 117

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Rathmullan on the shore of Lough Swilly, you are travelling the place where one of the most famous farewells in Irish history took place. In 1607 the Earls sailed out onto the lough, and their ancient vassals stood bare-headed on this shore to bid them a last farewell. They raised a keen of lamentation, and the annalists said it was as piercing as if they had been accompanying their lifeless bodies to the grave. The vassals saw all hopes of the freedom of their country cut off with the flight of the Earls. When the sail disappeared from sight, so too did the high hopes and heroic endurance the example of those great men had kept alive for so many years. As night settled on the blue waters of Lough Swilly, night would sink upon their souls, and they went sorrowing away, carrying the story of their heroes to be retold by the peat-smoke on many a winter's night. The two Earls and their friends went on to Rome, where the Pope welcomed them warmly, seeing them as the true and tried champions of his cause in Ireland. They had been more than that. They had been the untiring champions of Ireland itself in its fruitless struggle against the English supremacy, and they did not leave until it seemed no longer possible to win their country's freedom.

54. Wedding feast at Tara in the Diarmid and Grania legend

    Tara · parish · Meath · 300–399

    In the local legend, the wedding between Finn MacCumhal and Grania was to be celebrated at Cormac MacArt's court in Tara, where a great banquet was prepared. Grania drugged the guests with a spiced cup and fled with Diarmid O'Duibhne.

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    The wedding was to be celebrated at Cormac’s court in Tara, where a great banquet was prepared in expectation of the honoured guest, who was so soon to be the king’s son-in-law. In course of time Finn arrived, attended by a large company of the Fians, all dressed in princely splendour. Amongst them came his son, Oisin (Ossian), the Irish Orpheus, and his friend Diarmid O’Duibhne, a young and handsome warrior who at once captivated Grania’s heart, as she took his captive. She looked upon her elderly wooer with great disfavour, nor was she willing to link her fate with his in spite of his glorious fame. The question arose as to how they could delude both Cormac and Finn and escape from the court at Tara. Oisin, of course, could not act against his father, though he promised Diarmid in no way to interfere between him and his love. The solution was left to Grania to find: the old Irish proverb says, ‘‘ Where a woman has a will, she will find a way.’ Grania soon proved its truth to the full, though the consequences of her action with Diarmid

    180 MAUNTIS<4OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 80

    As the companion tells it

    In the tales of this parish of Tara, Cormac MacArt held court here in the 300s, and a great banquet was prepared for the wedding of Finn MacCumhal and Grania. Finn arrived with a large company of the Fians, all dressed in princely splendour. Among them came his son Oisin, called the Irish Orpheus, and his friend Diarmid O'Duibhne, a young and handsome warrior who at once captivated Grania's heart. She looked upon her elderly wooer with great disfavour, nor was she willing to link her fate with his in spite of his glorious fame. The question arose as to how they could delude both Cormac and Finn and escape from the court at Tara. Oisin could not act against his father, though he promised Diarmid in no way to interfere between him and his love. The old Irish proverb says, 'Where a woman has a will, she will find a way.' Grania found it. She drugged the guests with a spiced cup and fled with Diarmid O'Duibhne.

55. Diarmid builds cromlech at Kilclooney as sleeping chamber

    Kilclooney · townland · Cork · 300–399

    After fleeing from Tara, the lovers arrived at Kilclooney in Donegal where Diarmid built the huge cromlech as a sleeping chamber, spreading heather on the ground. The proximity to the sea was part of his stratagem to evade Finn's divining power.

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    Now Diarmid knew all about Finn’s ‘‘ divining tooth ’’ and the dangers with which it threatened the pair of them. He was therefore bound to find some plan of circumventing this unfair advantage of his elderly rival. When the lovers had arrived at Kilclooney he built the huge cromlech as a sleeping chamber, but provided himself with a large bag of heather which he spread on the ground whereon they were to lie. It must be borne in mind that Kilclooney lay fairly near to the sea, if the point of this stratagem is to be understood. Here then the lovers rested after their journey across Ireland, which was indeed a prodigious one to take in so short a time; but love and legend can lend wings even to a snail. Diarmid determined not to flee so far on the second day: about twelve miles off, due south of Glenties, is the peak of Carnaween,

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 80

    As the companion tells it

    Close to Kilclooney, Diarmid built a huge cromlech as a sleeping chamber for himself and his lover, after they fled from Tara. He knew all about Finn's divining tooth and the dangers it threatened for the pair of them. He had to find some plan to circumvent this unfair advantage of his elderly rival. When the lovers arrived, he built the cromlech and provided himself with a large bag of heather, which he spread on the ground where they were to lie. The place lay fairly near to the sea, and that was part of the stratagem. The lovers rested after their journey across Ireland, a prodigious one to take in so short a time. As the old book says, "love and legend can lend wings even to a snail."

56. Fair-day bargaining customs at the Diamond, Donegal

    Donegal · town · Donegal

    On fair-days the Diamond and the road to the station were crowded with cattle, donkeys and horses. The protracted Irish bargaining ritual, arbitrated by a third party, involved elaborate hand-gestures, praise, and refusal, with the crowd offering humorous commentary until a price was agreed and the bargain wetted at a smaller inn.

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    On Fair-days, the Diamond itself, and the road leading to the station are crowded with a multitude of cattle, with some donkeys and a few horses. At such times may be seen in perfection the protracted issue of an Irish bargain, which always seems to need the arbitration of a third party. He will bid first the one hold out his hand and praise him to the skies, then he will command the other to do likewise and bespatter him with a like commendation. Next he will try to induce the seller to agree to a certain price and take the hand of the buyer, whereto the former will reply, ‘‘ I will not! ’’ and promptly put his hand behind him. Then he endeavours to shorten the interval between the seller’s and the buyer’s price, until often enough only the difference of half-a-crown remains to part the two. When this point is reached the arbitrator uses his utmost persuasion to bring matters to a head. For the most part his eloquence is quite successful, and the three

    228 HAUNTS: OF THE EAGLE

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 102

    As the companion tells it

    You are coming through Donegal town, where fair-days once filled the Diamond and the road to the station with cattle, donkeys and horses. An Irish bargain was a protracted business, always seeming to need a third party to arbitrate. He would bid one man hold out his hand and praise him to the skies, then command the other to do the same with equal commendation. He would try to induce the seller to agree to a price and take the buyer's hand, and the seller would reply, "I will not!" and promptly put his hand behind him. The arbitrator would work to shorten the gap between seller's and buyer's price until often only half a crown separated them. Then he would use his utmost persuasion to bring matters to a head, and for the most part his eloquence was quite successful.

57. Gossip about the murdered Earl at Letterkenny's Diamond

    Letterkenny · town · Donegal

    Local gossip held that the Earl was murdered because of attentions paid to the sister of one of his murderers. The woman said to be involved was pointed out to the narrator on the Diamond at Letterkenny, though one informant dismissed the story as baseless.

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    child, who had a good word to throw at the old feudal tyrant. If this amiable aristocrat saw a tenant building a hay-stack higher than he thought consistent with his own dignity, he would compel him to take it down. If he wanted to know the boundary of a little farm upon his estate, he would insist upon the tenant’s running round it on the top of its earthen fences. He would not suffer the children to learn any home lessons, because he believed that the teachers would have nothing to do during their teaching hours. Moreover, as my informant put it, ‘It was only natural that an old bachelor liked to have pretty schoolmistresses in the schools of which he was the manager in chief! ’’ But he was able to refute some of the worst charges brought against the Earl’s memory: he contemptuously scouted one of the favourite pieces of gossip, which I had heard on the spot, that his Lordship met with his death because of too particular attentions paid to the sister of one of his murderers, the same who had been pointed out to me on the Diamond at Letterkenny. The nephew and successor of the murdered Earl reversed the policy of his uncle and earned the devoted love of his tenants in his too short life, and his son keeps up his father’s policy.

    Mr. Harkin was very full of the advantages which the extension of the Loughswilly light railway would bring to this part of the county. The light railway has since come into being, and no doubt fulfils some of his prophecies. But by a singularly false piece of economy this single-gauge line traces vast expanses of bog, and with one, or perhaps two, exceptions has succeeded in carefully avoiding the chief towns and villages, which it was intended to serve. For example, it is nearly two miles. from the important village of Church Hill, a full mile from the historic hamlet of Kilmacrenan, though it does pass near the Holy Well of Doon, and so benefits a numerous host of pilgrims. When it reaches Creeslough, by what

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 25

    As the companion tells it

    As you pass through Letterkenny, you are in the town where one of the favourite pieces of gossip about the murdered Earl used to be traded on the Diamond. The story went that his lordship met his death because of too particular attentions paid to the sister of one of his murderers. The woman said to be involved was pointed out to the narrator right on the Diamond at Letterkenny. One informant, though, contemptuously scouted the tale as baseless. The Earl was remembered as an old feudal tyrant. If he saw a tenant building a hay-stack higher than he thought consistent with his own dignity, he would compel him to take it down. If he wanted to know the boundary of a little farm on his estate, he would insist on the tenant running round it on top of its earthen fences. He would not suffer the children to learn any home lessons, because he believed the teachers would then have nothing to do during their teaching hours. As one informant put it, it was only natural that an old bachelor liked to have pretty schoolmistresses in the schools of which he was manager in chief. His nephew and successor reversed his policy and earned the devoted love of his tenants in his too short life, and his son kept up that policy.

58. Hermitage of Saints Hugh McBracken and Asic at Slieve League

    Slieve League · mountain or mountain range · Donegal

    Near the precipices of Slieve League stand the remains of cells and an oratory of two early Irish hermit saints, Hugh McBracken and Asic. Asic, a disciple of St. Patrick who was made Bishop of Elphin, withdrew to this isolated spot after an unwitting falsehood made him unable to face his flock.

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    Just behind me and close to the precipices stood the scanty remains of the cells and oratory of two old Irish Saints, Hugh McBracken and Asic, who retired into this savage spot to lead the bare life of hermits. Of the first little is known; but the second was a disciple of St. Patrick, who made him Bishop of Elphin. In some transaction with an unconverted Irishman he is said to have uttered an unwitting falsehood, after which he could not endure to face his flock. Time and again they came to seek him, but he refused to return with them. The ruined oratory, a tiny cave, an unroofed dwelling and a well may still be seen on the spot. I saw no traces of the bed of either Saint, which would be nothing more than a not over flat stone, so little did these early Irish votaries consider the comfort of their bodies. It was more than a little startling, not to say repulsive, to me to find by the side of the well a marmalade-jar of the ubiquitous Keiller, still used by the faithful as a drinking-cup. Before the consecration of the ‘‘ Holy Glen ’”’ by the foundation of a monastery and residence of St. Columba there, hundreds of pilgrims found their way over the ‘‘One Man’s Path” to the relics of these two ancient Saints.

    The outlook was bright and majestic enough when I stood near the ruined hermitage; but to picture it in a storm passes human words. In very truth these reverend penitents chose a place for meditation far enough away from the busy haunts of men and the continual tumults of daily life, where they could be face to face with Nature in all her aspects, from the smiling beauty of a summer evening to the awful sublimity of a winter hurricane. But pilgrims

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 14

    As the companion tells it

    Slieve League in Donegal holds the scanty remains of cells and an oratory close to its precipices, where two early Irish hermit saints, Hugh McBracken and Asic, came to lead the bare life of hermits. Little is known of Hugh McBracken. But Asic was a disciple of Saint Patrick, who made him Bishop of Elphin. In some transaction with an unconverted Irishman, Asic is said to have uttered an unwitting falsehood. After that, he could not endure to face his flock. Time and again they came to seek him, but he refused to return with them. The ruined oratory, a tiny cave, an unroofed dwelling, and a well may still be seen on the mountain. No traces of the bed of either saint were found, which would have been nothing more than a not over flat stone, so little did these early Irish votaries consider the comfort of their bodies. By the well a marmalade jar was found, still used by the faithful as a drinking cup. Before the consecration of the Holy Glen by the foundation of a monastery and the residence of Saint Columba there, hundreds of pilgrims found their way over the One Man's Path to the relics of these two ancient saints. These reverend penitents chose a place far from the busy haunts of men, where they could be face to face with Nature in all her aspects, from the smiling beauty of a summer evening to the awful sublimity of a winter hurricane.

59. Manuscript dispute at Clonard

    Clonard · site · Dublin

    St. Finnian of Clonard possessed a beautiful manuscript copy of the Psalter which Columbkille coveted. After Finnian refused permission to copy it, Columbkille secretly produced a copy, prompting Finnian to demand its surrender and King Diarmid to rule that 'to every book belongs its copy.'

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    The other act of Diarmid’s which is said to have provoked him was quaint in itself, and hardly merited the punishment which fell upon him. St. Finnian of Clonard, Columbkille’s former tutor, had an exceptionally beautiful manuscript copy of the Psalter, probably made by his own hand, which he valued among his chief possessions. His old pupil was a great lover and producer of works of this kind, on one of which he is said to have been occupied a few days before his death. He earnestly craved permission to copy the holy manuscript, that he might keep it by him as something of supreme worth. ‘From some reason, St. Finnian, not a little churlishly, refused permission, and Columbkille went away sorely disappointed. But he was not the kind of man to sit down content with such a refusal : by some means he got hold of the precious manuscript, and working day and night produced a perfect copy of it. When St. Finnian came to hear of what had been done, whether from his old pupil’s lips or another, he was’ moved to anger and demanded that the copy, made at the expense of so much labour, should be handed over to him.

    Columbkille had no mind to surrender what it had cost him so much time and trouble to obtain. The decision of the question at issue was referred to Diarmid the King. His answer, though couched in quaint and homely language, has something to be said for it. ‘‘ To every cow,’’ he said, ‘* belongs

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 98

    As the companion tells it

    Clonard was where St. Finnian kept a beautiful manuscript copy of the Psalter, probably made by his own hand, and valued among his chief possessions. His old pupil Columbkille was a great lover and producer of manuscripts, and he earnestly craved permission to copy the holy manuscript, that he might keep it by him as something of supreme worth. Finnian refused, not a little churlishly, and Columbkille went away sorely disappointed. But he was not the kind of man to sit down content with such a refusal. By some means he got hold of the precious manuscript, and working day and night produced a perfect copy. When Finnian came to hear of what had been done, he was moved to anger and demanded that the copy, made at the expense of so much labour, should be handed over to him. Columbkille had no mind to surrender what it had cost him so much time and trouble to obtain. The decision of the question at issue was referred to Diarmid the King. His answer, though couched in quaint and homely language, has something to be said for it. "To every cow belongs," he said, and by that ruling, to every book belongs its copy. This was one of the acts of Diarmid said to have provoked Columbkille, and hardly merited the punishment that fell upon him.

60. Poisoned Glen: Balor legend and fairy lore

    Poisoned Glen · valley · Donegal

    The Poisoned Glen takes its ill-omened name from the legend of Balor, whose grandson MacKineely thrust a spear through his envenomed eye. The glen is also associated with 'little red men' on enchanted steeds, fairy dances, and the wailing of the banshee.

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    There lay the Poisoned Glen, its gleaming rocks snow-white, grim, sheer: I fancied that I could see Balor lurking behind the crag, when his grandson, MacKineely, thrust his spear through the envenomed eye, and so gave its illomened name to that savage recess. I could see the ‘“‘little red men ’’ riding on their enchanted steeds to work revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. I could picture the “‘ good people ’’ weaving their mystic dance to the tune of their weird and unearthly music; I could hear the banshee wailing with the foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. I could imagine Columba in his coragh following his mystic staff across the stormy sound of Tory, to plant the Cross in that barren land. I could see the old church at Ray, where the huge cross which he is said to have cut in Tory, lies broken into four pieces. I could see Falcarragh with its discarded battering-ram, and far out at sea I could just catch a glimpse of the brown sails of the fishing fleet, hardly bigger than butterflies’ wings, provided by the wiser counsel of the Congested Districts Board.

    A whole pageant of the past mingled with my thoughts of the present, transforming what I saw into a phantasmagoria of wonderful beauty and pathos. Then I saw, or thought I saw, how the very lie of the land had divided its people into warring factions, which persist to this day. I could gather something of the unconquered spirit of the modern Irishman, his chief inheritance from the past, which

    Internet Archive hauntsofeagleman00foxa, Chapter 51

    As the companion tells it

    The Poisoned Glen is a valley the road passes through or near in Donegal. Its gleaming rocks stand snow-white, grim, and sheer. The name comes from an old legend. Balor lurked behind a crag in this savage recess, and his grandson MacKineely thrust a spear through Balor's envenomed eye. That act gave the glen its ill-omened name. The stories go further. The writer tells of "little red men" riding their enchanted steeds, working revenge on any who might have insulted or injured them. He pictures the "good people" weaving their mystic dance to the tune of weird and unearthly music. He hears the banshee wailing with foreknowledge of the imminent death of some member of the family to which she was attached. A whole pageant of the past mingles with thoughts of the present, transforming what is seen into a phantasmagoria of wonderful beauty and pathos. The writer saw, or thought he saw, how the very lie of the land had divided its people into warring factions, which persist to this day. From the glen he could gather something of the unconquered spirit of the modern Irishman, his chief inheritance from the past.