In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain
named O'Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic
Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and
justice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of
his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as
renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a
proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous
because it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers,
called "O'Donoghue's Prison," in which this prince once confined his
own son for some act of disorder and disobedience.
His end--for it cannot correctly be called his death--was singular and
mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was
celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he
was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen
in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now
fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as
he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the
miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose
slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic
tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its
unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre he paused
for a moment, then, turning slowly round, looked toward his friends,
and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a
short farewell, disappeared from their view.
The memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished by successive
generations with affectionate reverence; and it is believed that at
sunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure,
he revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general
permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good
fortune to the beholders; when it is granted to many it is a sure
token of an abundant harvest,--a blessing, the want of which during
this prince's reign was never felt by his people.
Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O'Donoghue. The
April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on
May-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air
was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene
lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles,
after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe
that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.
The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit
of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became
suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface
lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a
foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,
exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies
mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed,
mounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from
a helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue
scarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung
after the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth,
while showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were
dashed up at every bound.
The warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and
maidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as
the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were
linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they
timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue
had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned
his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of
Glenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as
the horse's neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long
train of attendants followed with playful deviations the track of
their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial
music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between
Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still
partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the
wondering beholders: but the sound of their music still fell upon the
ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and
prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint
repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.
[Footnote 42: _Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland._]