# The Female Prose Writers of America/Mary E. Hewitt/A Legend of Ireland

published in The Female Prose Writers of America
A LEGEND OF IRELAND.
The business of state was over for the day. Judgments had been awarded, the different records of the kingdom examined, and whatever material they afforded for national history had been carefully entered in the great national record called the Psalter of Tara; when a herald advanced and proclaimed to the assembly that a combat would take place on the morrow, between Conrigh, a celebrated chieftain, and Maon, a knight of the Red Branch. These warriors had each demanded the hand of the lady Brehilda, the king’s ward, as the meed of their prowess in battle, and the lady was to be the reward of the successful competitor. But Brehilda had known Maon and loved him from her childhood, far away in her own home; for he was the son of a neighbouring chieftain, and years ago he had gathered flowers for her upon the hills, and walked at her bridle rein, while her rough pony scrambled with her over the rocky passes.
But her sire was dead—no son inherited his name and glory—his estate had passed away to a distant male relative; for, by the law existing among the Irish, females of every degree were precluded from the inheritance, and Brehilda was the ward of the nation’s monarch.
There was feasting that night in the palace of Tara, and a noble assemblage of the brave and beautiful of the land. In the banquet hall the bards sang the praises of heroes to the harp, while the chiefs feasted at the board and quaffed meadh from the corna—the trumpet in battle, and in peace the drinking cup—and in the lighted saloon the guests of the monarch danced the rincead-fadha, the national dance, to the music of the harp, the tabor, and the corobasnas—an instrument formed of two circular pieces of brass, strung together by a wire of the same metal and used for marking time—but the lady Brehilda sat alone in her bower, looking out ​upon the moonlit scene, and thinking with a dread foreboding of the morrow, which might separate her for ever from the one she loved, and consign her to a hateful existence with Conrigh.
The walls of the apartment were hung with tapestry representing the landing of Heremon and Heber, and the contests of the Danonians with their Milesian invaders. The floor was strewn with fresh rushes, and the few articles of furniture scattered throughout the room, were as rude in design and workmanship as the age to which they belonged. An embroidery frame was placed in one corner, and near it a small harp, such as was used by ladies of the time, rested against a low table.
Without the tower lay the moonlit sward, the glittering river winding away among the woody hills, the rude castle of the chieftain, and the mud hovel of the peasant, where from the windows of each gleamed out the festal torch and the fire light.
But the sound of mirth had ceased in the palace of Tara, and the lights had gone out one by one from the distant dwellings, and still Brehilda sat at the narrow window, communing with her own sad heart. She was very beautiful as she sat there in her grief, with her fair hair, that had escaped from its fillet, falling in ripples of gold over her green, embroidered kirtle almost to the border of the white garment beneath it. Her small hands clasped, rested upon her lap, and her full blue eyes were turned tearfully upward, as if she were invoking the One great Principle of the universe, whose worship the Druids taught, to strengthen the arm of her lover and save her from the fate she would rather die than meet. The moon was now slowly descending behind the distant hills, and all nature reposed in silence, when the strings of a harp lightly touched, sounded from a grove not far off, and a full, manly voice sang the following words:
Springing to her feet at the first sound of the voice, every feature of her beautiful face lighted up with intense joy, she stood like a young pythoness filled with the oracle, and extended her arms toward a figure arrayed in the long, fringed colchal of a bard, that now emerged from the grove, and whom her heart told her truly could be no other than Maon. Casting back the hood from his face, he stood revealed in the waning moonlight, and raising his hand to his lips, then waving it upward in parting salutation to the maiden, he again entered the grove and disappeared; and Brehilda, strengthened by the words of his song, and reassured by his presence, retired to her couch, and soon in sweet slumber forgot the cares that oppressed her heart.
The morrow, like all dreaded to-morrows, dawned brightly. The combat was to take place early in the day, and the field had been prepared for the rivals and those who were to witness the contest. The thrones of the Irish monarch and the kings of the four provinces were arranged much in the same manner as in the hall of legislation, save that the King of Connaught had his place on the left of the King of Munster, while platforms or galleries were erected on either side for the accommodation of spectators.
It is not to be supposed that a trial of arms in that remote time was conducted with the order and magnificence of the more modern tournament; but still the field was not wanting in much of the material that served to make up the display of that after period. The seats around the arena were now filling to their utmost extent and capacity. There were nobles and knights, and esquires bearing the shields of their chiefs; and to the several orders of bards ​assembled for the convention of the states were assigned conspicuous places in the enclosure. Each king, robed in the colours appropriate to royalty, occupied the throne prepared for him, seated beneath his own banner, and in a gallery behind the throne of Ollamh sat Brehilda, arrayed like a noble Irish maiden, pale as sculptured marble, surrounded by the principal ladies of the monarch’s court.
At a loud blast of the corna the combatants entered the arena from opposite sides of the field. They were noble in appearance, well matched in size, and sat their chafing steeds as firmly as the Thessalian riders whose horsemanship gave birth to the fabled Centaurs. Each warrior was arrayed in the rude and defective armour of the time—the head covered with the head-piece of iron, which at that period had neither crest nor vizor. The right hand bore a lance, the left arm a buckler, while an iron maul, powerful as the hammer of the northern Thunder God, hung pendent at each saddle-bow, for the battle-axe was then unknown in warfare. Eager for the conflict, at a signal from the herald they sprang to the encounter, and for a long time the victory seemed doubtful; but the lance of Conrigh splintered against the shield of Maon, and each unslung the ponderous maul, and poising it aloft, again spurred to the contest.
With hushed heart and dilated eyes Brehilda gazed upon the scene. A moment of intense bewilderment, and she sank in a death-like swoon upon the floor of the gallery, for Maon lay stunned upon the field, beneath his prostrate steed. The shout that hailed the victor was unheard by the maiden as they bore her from the throng, and placed her insensible form upon the couch in her tower.
But the festival was over. The solemn feast in the temple of Yiachto had been partaken of—the great fire of Samhuin had been lighted, and the Deity invoked to bless their national counsels, and Conrigh had departed to his castle on the river Fionglasse, in the county of Kerry, where he dwelt in all the barbarism of feudal magnificence, bearing with him his bride, the wretched Brehilda.
Neither the devotion of her lord, nor the splendour that ​surrounded her, could console, or render the new-made wife contented with her lot. She envied the peasant maidens who milked the kine beyond her window, free to love where the heart prompted and to wed where they loved—and her daily prayer to Dhia, the great Creator of all things, was that her spirit might be permitted to enter the flowery fields, and dwell in the airy halls of Flathinnis, the Druidical heaven, with those beloved who had gone before.
The winter was ended, and the festival of Beil Tinne was at hand. All nature seemed to rejoice in the season of the returning sun, and Brehilda, to whom the brightness of spring brought no joy, wandered alone on the banks of the Fionglasse. The birds sang upward to the highest heaven, and the over-hanging trees waved their fresh green leaves to the rippling water. Brehilda seated herself listlessly beside the stream, and anon the following song from her lips, in a subdued voice, sounded tunefully over the waters.
They have parted for ever Our hearts rosy chain, And bound me, all helpless, To a love I disdain. They have ruthless bereft us Of the fond hope of years, And given my young life To sorrow and tears.
Yet my heart, Oh Beloved, To thy memory clings, As the bird o’er her nestling Folds closely her wings. The dark clouds may gather Aloft in the sky, And the tempest toss wildly The branches on high;
But faithful and fond, With her young neath her breast, Still fearlessly cleaveth The bird to her nest. And thus, though in peril, And secret it be, Oh! Bird of my breast! Clings my true heart to thee.
Their interview was long, and passionate their communing, and at length the lovers parted. Maon again embarked on the Fionglasse, and Brehilda returned to the castle.
In those early days, when war and glory were the theme of song, acts of violence and bloodshed were frequent, and revenge followed fast upon wrong; for the light of revelation had not yet dawned upon the world that knew no return for injury but retribution.
It was the first of May, and the day of the festival of Beil Tinne. Fires were lighted, and sacrifices were offered on the most lofty eminences in every part of the kingdom to Beil, or the Sun. The Druids danced around their round towers the sacred dance of their profession, as was the custom of this priesthood during the religious festivals of the nation; and the martial followers of the chiefs joined in the Rinkey, or field-dance—a performance not unlike the armed dance with which the Greek youth amused themselves at the siege of Troy—to the sound of the bagpipes, upon the green-sward.
A stranger bard feasted that night in the hall of Conrigh, with the guests and retainers of the chieftain. He wore the truise of weft, which covered the feet, legs, and thighs, as far as the loins, striped with various colours, and fitting so closely as to discover every motion and muscle of the limbs; and the cotaigh, or tunic of linen, dyed yellow, and ornamented with needle-work, reaching to the mid-thigh, and confined around the loins by an embroidered girdle. The sleeves of this garment were loose and long, and the bosom was cut round, leaving the neck and upper part of the ​shoulders bare. His beard was long, and his hair flowed over his neck and shoulders in wavy luxuriance. Thus arrayed in the picturesque habit allowed to that order of men whose persons were held sacred everywhere throughout the kingdom, he was one of those noble specimens of manly beauty formed to awaken the interest and admiration of all beholders.
Meadh foamed at the board—the bards sang “the days of other years,” nor was the theme of love held unmeet for so joyous an occasion—the harp was passed round from hand to hand among the guests, each one contributing his portion of song to enliven the feast, and the unknown bard, in his turn taking the instrument, struck the chords loudly; and while Brehilda, who was seated near her lord, listened, trembling and pale with apprehension lest the intruder should be discovered beneath the disguise which the eyes of love had already penetrated, he sang—
The dove was the falcon’s love, The dove with her tender breast; Ah! weary the fate that gave The dove to the kite’s vile nest! The moon from yon cloud to-night Looks down on the feast of shells; Oh, marked she the falcon’s flight For the home where his own dove dwells?
There’s a veil o’er my harp’s true strings, There’s a cloud o’er the fair moon’s breast; And the falcon, with outspread wings, Hangs o’er the kite’s vile nest. The famishing birds of prey, Are hurrying through the night, But the dove with her falcon love Will have flown ere the morning light!
The feast flowed on, uninterrupted by aught but song; and at a late hour the revellers retired from the banquet to their apartments in the castle.
It was long after midnight, when the sleepers were aroused from their slumbers by the sound of conflict in the hall below. Hastily dressed, and half armed, they rushed forth from their apartments to meet the swords of their unknown assailants. Wildly the contest ​raged, and everywhere was seen the strange bard, encouraging the intruders, until at length in the affray he encountered Conrigh, and casting off the false beard that disguised him, they stood face to face amid the combat—the husband and the lover of Brehilda. They fought with all the terrible hate that animated them, and Conrigh fell, pierced with many wounds, beneath the sword of his adversary. A brief moment, and Maon, bearing the insensible form of Brehilda, passed swiftly through the hall and out at the portal. Mounting a strong steed, while the assailants continued their work of blood, and placing her for whom he had wrought the night’s sacrifice, before him, he fled with all speed toward the court of Conquovar Mac Nessa, King of Ulster.
This wise and munificent king was a patron of the learned, and in his court the unfortunate and the proscribed found an asylum and a mediator. Morning dawned as Maon paused in his flight beside a running spring, and alighted with his unconscious burthen. He sprinkled her brow with the cool lymph, and filling the korn—the cup sacred to the deity of the earth and the waters, suspended from the overhanging branch of a tree—he raised the draught to her lips. Who can describe the rapture of Brehilda, on awaking from her long trance, to find herself supported by the arms of the lover of her girlhood, and to meet again his look of ardent affection.