Moville.Records

Other.Information

Old photographs Old photos of Moville and the surrounding areas.

Maps Old maps of the two parishes in Moville.

Books Read a history of Moville, and see other references to the area.

Lewis' Topographical Dictionary Extracts from the Topographical Dictionary published in 1837

FHC Records Family History Centre (LDS) film references for Moville records

Moville.Records

The Water Mill at Moville

The Lovers.of Moville

In fair Moville lived a maiden named Mary M'Laughlin. Mary was an only child, the faithful nurse and attendant of her aged father, and at the time of which we write she was an orphan, for her mother was dead. Fair, tall, and exceedingly handsome was Mary ; her hair was as dark as the wing of the raven, her countenance glowed with the bloom of health, her cheeks resembled the fresh blown rose; of a pure grey tint like the hazel was her lustrous eye. Her fine prepossessing appearance she inherited from her lost dear mother, whose very image she was, and who doted upon her as the idol of her soul, and early instilled into her youthful mind lessons of piety and devotion to her Creator, and a sense of the duties which, as a child, she owed her parents—love, obedience, and filial tenderness, which admirable instructions Mary dearly cherished, and richly profited by. Young, elegant, comely, it was no wonder that Mary was admired.

Two suitable young men strove eagerly for her hand. The ardent affections of both were reciprocated by her, insomuch that in her heart of hearts she could not obtain a sunnier spot for either, nor entertain a preference for one over the other. She loved both with equal ardour, and it was a source of the greatest discomfort to her as she tried, but tried in vain, to make in her affections a distinction between them. Often, too, had she to endure the exquisite raillery of her comrades, who used to tell her she should marry either of the young men; but, if she intended not to marry she should tell them so, and leave others a chance; and then they would mischievously ask her would she not herself expect from others a course similar to what they recommended.

Under circumstances less trying how often have we heard of young village maids, yea, and of high born dames, the daughters of the proud and wealthy, consenting to be preyed upon by crafty spae-wives, fortune-tellers, and cuptossers, who audaciously pretend to penetrate the mysterious future, and to trace their fair clients' destinies in the lines which intersect each other on the palms of their hands, or in the gyrations of sedimentary matter at the bottom of a tea cup. Though the mind of our heroine was fairly clouded and darkened with grief and anxiety, she despised all such hollow quackery.

In a quiet retired spot in the neighbourhood of Mary's abode was a holy well. One evening, at the time we treat of, a young female might be seen underneath the sheltering thorn, beside this holy well, kneeling in fervent prayer. She was all alone, nor dreaded aught which might disturb her devotions. In the still evening hour two young men approached this spot from opposite directions. At the same moment they beheld the female in prayerful attitude at the well, and they beheld each other. They start back amazed, for the meeting was wholly unexpected ; neither uttered a word, but their uneasy and embarrassed looks spoke volumes. I need hardly say that the group now before us are Mary and her lovers. Both were unnoticed by her, hence they stood quite still, not daring to disturb her. When she arose to depart, there stood both before her, face to face; seeing them her colour came and went ; she was red and pale alternately; she could not on the moment proceed on her way, so, with throbbing heart and in deep confusion, she sat herself down on a little mossy bank hard by.

One of the young men then stepped forward and said "Mary, I perceive your difficulty, and can easily judge how painful it would be for you to favour one of us, as I take it, at the expense of the other; but, in order that you may have time and leisure for reflection and an opportunity to judge of the dictates of your own heart, I hereby propose to depart on to-morrow morning, nor shall I thereafter set foot on Irish soil for a twelvemonth and a day. At the end of that time I hope to return, and if your feelings be still favourable to me, I will press you to accept me as your future husband. In the meantime, you are to consider yourself perfectly free to dispose of your hand and affections as you please; and, on my return, if I find you have done so, however I may regret it, I shall not complain."

With equal generosity his rival replied, "My aged mother is dependent on me for support; I cannot leave Ireland, but shall be careful not to intrude myself on Mary's presence for twelve months, and to make sure of this I will quit Moville to-morrow and reside at Greencastle till the expiration of that time."

Deeply thankful to both, Mary bade them an affectionate farewell, and hastened back to her father's cottage. Next morning Hugh M'Dermott shipped as a sailor on board a merchantman which lay at anchor in the Foyle, and Peter M'Gonagle, equally prompt to the fulfilment of his design, removed to Greencastle, and followed the occupation of a fisherman.

Months rolled on; Peter's mother died and was buried at Cooley. Dearly as her son had loved her, the honourable engagement which he had entered into was still dearer to him, and, lest he should violate his promise, he did not attend her funeral, as the procession had to pass through the town of Moville on their way to the graveyard.

The twelve months had just passed, arid the night of the following day was one fraught with anxiety to the fisherman of Greencastle. With anxious nervous longing he waited for the morrow — waited to know whether his rival might return — waited to know whether Mary's decision should be pronounced in his favour. These were the thoughts that occupied his mind, as he sat at his fireside; but now a howling storm began to rage without, the Tonns were roaring, so was the thunder peal, and flashes of forked lightning glared fitfully through the pitchy darkness.

He went at last to bed; his sleep was broken and uneasy, and ever and anon, as he awoke, he prayed for the safety of those who, on that awful night, might be tossed about on the stormy main; yet he could not sleep, and getting up he went out in the night and climbed the summit of a rocky cliff, from which he looked intently across the sea. There he could perceive the deep, furrowed up by the tempest, and at a distance along its surface he beheld a flash. It is not heaven's lightning; soon again it is repeated.

Ah! he understands it; it is the minute gun at sea. He darted from the cliff and ran to his cot, which he immediately set all on fire as a signal to the distressed mariners. His next act was to launch his own boat, and in a few moments more he was off, rowing it all alone, over the stormy billows. At length he gamed the ship; by the dim light burning faintly he soon perceived that the crew had just abandoned her, invited perhaps to land by the flames which shot up from his own consuming cottage. He could also perceive evidence of strife and struggle before their departure, and much gold and valuables strewn about the deck. But what is this lying along the mast?.

Taking the lamp he goes to examine. He hears a moan—the moan of a wounded man. He was a strong, robust man; and his face was bronzed by a tropical sun, save the forehead, which was white and fair as the lily. Amid his pain and sufferings he knows the wounded sailor; it is his rival, Hugh M'Dermott. Had Peter M'Gonagle been less of a Christian he would have said, "I shall not encumber myself with this wounded man, but secure the wealth which will recompense me for the loss of my dwelling, and be sure to render my suit successful; if this man die here it was his fate, not any fault of mine."

But no; such were not Peter's sentiments; he had come of parents who taught him the divine precept of doing to others as he would wish to be done by, and raising up the wounded man, he kindly and tenderly assisted him into his boat, and going in along with him, he shaped his course for land. The storm raged throughout the night, its fury had hardly abated.

At the grey dawn of the following morning, on the high rocky knoll which juts into the Foyle at the town of Moville, Mary M'Laughlin might be seen looking over the sea—looking intently across the still disturbed waters. No sail met her anxious gaze as the moments sped rapidly on. Tired of waiting, she was about to take her departure, when lo, she dimly sees a small boat buffeting the waves, and slowly advancing to the land.

I shall not attempt to describe her feelings as she awaited its arrival; it at last entered the little port and gained the shore. The boat was that which bore to land the wounded, now dying, sailor, manned and conducted by Peter M'Gonagle. She recognised his manly handsome features, though changed so much by a foreign clime, and she is quickly bending over him in silent poignant grief, for she knows that a few brief moments must terminate his earthly career.

It is twelve months since Mary and her lovers parted; they are now all three again together; but what a melancholy meeting. The sufferer opened his eyes as Mary gazed down upon him, and smiled a last smile of recognition and of thanks. A priest was soon at hand, who administered to him the consoling last rites of his church. In a few short words he expressed his admiration of his rival's noble spirit, blessed them both, and expired.

Mary and Peter M'Gonagle were afterwards united; they lived contented, and the gratitude expressed by the dying sailor made her devotion for her husband doubly great through life.

Thus ends the story of the lovers of Moville.

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