From Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts by Patrick Kennedy
The Regia of Ptolemy is supposed to be in existence, and inhabited by beings who once breathed the upper air. It lies in the bed of the Shannon towards its mouth, and is visible once in every seven years. Whoever is so unlucky as to get a sight of this buried city dies within a month. So late as 1823, fifteen men who had been down the river in a sail-boat, were seen by many people at mass in a neighbouring chapel, and even spoken to; but later in the day terror and grief prevailed in that neighbourhood, on finding that these poor fellows and their boat had been at the bottom of the river at the very time when they were supposed present in the chapel. A little vessel anchored one night near Beale, which is not far from the supposed site of Kilstoheen; and next morning the crew on awaking found themselves by the quay of a magnificent city. A merchant coming on board engaged the vessel for a voyage to Bordeaux, for a cargo of wine. Thither captain and crew went in a few hours, laid in the commodity, and were back in Kilstoheen with very little delay. The freight being royally paid, the sailors went ashore, and enjoyed life in their peculiar way. One or two unfortunately approached some ladies who were taking the air, with coarse language and rough endearments, and at the same moment a storm began to blow, and the waters to rise. The crew made a hasty retreat to their vessel, and they had hardly gained it when they saw the beautiful city covered by the swelling waters, and their own bark dancing like a nutshell among the frothing waves. There was an unaccountable blank at this point in their after recollections; but next morning they awoke with their little vessel grounded on a sloping shallow portion of the bed of the river.
The people of Kilstoheen were reported to cultivate a fine breed of horses. A farmer in the neighbourhood found his hayricks invaded several nights in succession. So he set a watch, and found that the depredators, after making their meal, made their way into the Shannon.
End of this Story
From a sad, comfortless childhood Giles Truelove developed into a reclusive and uncommunicative man whose sole passion was books. For so long they were the only meaning to his existence. But when fate eventually intervened to have the outside world intrude upon his life, he began to discover emotions that he never knew he had.
A touching story for the genuine booklover, written by an Irish bookseller under the pseudonym of Ralph St John Featherstonehaugh.
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