"Hear that! you thieving blackguard," said the eagle, "and take _that_
home with you!" and with one blow of her great beak, she pitched him
over, and he tumbled down the mountainside into the lake; getting
severely bruised and well ducked for interfering with the domestic
happiness of his neighbors.
About a mile below this mountain, we passed under Old Weir Bridge.
This is called "shooting the bridge," and unless you have very skilful
boatmen, is considered very dangerous, as the rapids are swift and
strong.
We next passed the bay and mountain of Glena, by far the most beautiful
scenes of Killarney.
We took dinner on shore, seated on the soft, cool grass, under the
shade of arbutus-trees, and after a little stroll, returned over the
water to our hotel, but a very little wearied by our day of pleasure.
Our first excursion the next morning was to the ruins of Muckross
Abbey, on a peninsula which divides the Lower Lake from Torc Lake.
This is a beautiful, solemn old spot, and is very much venerated by the
Irish peasantry, not only as having been built and occupied by holy
priests and saints, but as the burial-place of many of the ancient
Princes of Desmond, the MacCartys-Mor, and the O'Donoghues.
After leaving the Abbey, we commenced the ascent of Mangerton, a
mountain some 2,550 feet high. We were now all mounted on ponies, who
were very sagacious and sure-footed, and climbed the rocky, narrow path
like goats. We were followed every step of the way by a host of lads
and girls, carrying jugs and cups of milk and whisky, which they
offered to us at almost every moment. The greatest curiosity upon this
mountain is a little lake, near the summit, called, "The Devil's
Punch-Bowl." It is surrounded by almost perpendicular rocks; the water
is very dark, and is said to be unfathomable. Though so completely
shut in, it is never calm, and though icy cold in summer, it never
freezes in winter.
From the summit, we had a vast, magnificent view, which, however, I
must confess, I enjoyed less than the wild, frolicking ride which I
took soon after, down the mountain, following closely upon the steps of
one of my friends, who, for mischief, went far out of the path, and
took his way over rocks and gullies, through bogs and briars. It was
great sport to us, but I am afraid my poor pony had some private
objections to it.
We enjoyed another pic-nic dinner in Lord Kenmare's grounds, and
afterwards rowed to the lovely little island of Innisfallen, upon which
are some ruins of a famous old abbey, which is said to have been built
as early as the seventh century.
From Innisfallen we went to Ross Castle--a very well-preserved ruin.
In old times it was the stronghold of the war-like O'Donoghues. It was
besieged in 1652, by the forces of Cromwell, commanded by General
Ludlow, and though very strong and well provisioned, surrendered, with
scarcely an attempt at defence. The reason of this was that the
garrison was frightened at seeing the war ships which Ludlow brought
against them--as, long before, some old priest or wizard had made a
prophecy that when such vessels should appear on the lake, all would be
up with the castle. So superstition makes cowards of the bravest men.
There is a very curious and absurd legend which the peasants relate
about the last O'Donoghue; and they really seem to believe what they
are telling. Some say that when Ludlow marched his men into his
castle, the O'Donoghue, driven to despair, leaped from one of the
windows into the lake,--that he was not drowned, but turned into a sort
of merman under the waves, and has lived there ever since, with the
friendly water-spirits, and his family and many of his friends who have
followed him. They say he has a splendid sub-marine palace, and dogs
and horses, and harpers and fiddlers, good whisky punch, and potatoes
that are never touched with the rot--fairs and dances, and weddings and
wakes, and now and then a fight--in short, every thing that can make a
real old-fashioned Irishman feel at home and comfortable. The wakes
and fights are only make-believes, "for divarshin," they say; for the
people down there cannot die--cannot even be wounded, or hurt in any
way.
Others say that the O'Donoghue under the lake is a more ancient
prince--an enchanter, who for some act of impiety, got enchanted in his
turn and was condemned to dwell under the water, and is only allowed to
come to the surface once a year--on the first morning in May, when he
rides over the lake in grand style, clad in silver armor, with snowy
plumes in his casque, mounted on a white steed, splendidly caparisoned.
Before him go beautiful water-spirits, scattering flowers--all running
and dancing on the water, without the slightest difficulty. It is said
the enchantment of the O'Donoghue will last until the silver shoes of
his horse are worn off by the friction of the waves.
There are many yet living at Killarney, who solemnly declare that they
have seen the chieftain on his May-morning ride. But these, if honest
persons, have doubtless been deceived by singular appearances in the
atmosphere, called optical illusions, or mirages.
Many other legends are told by the peasants and guides. All are
strange and improbable, but some are very amusing, and some, I think,
quite poetic and beautiful.
One is about a holy man of Muckross, who fell into some great sin, and
repenting of it, waded into the lake, and stuck a holly-stick into the
bottom, and said he would not leave the spot till it should throw out
leaves and branches. So he did penance for seven years, and then the
stick suddenly leaved out and blossomed, and became a great tree, by
which the good man knew that he was pardoned. We may take a lesson
from this. If we do wrong, and try to atone for it, in the best way we
know how, it may seem a hopeless work; but if we wait patiently and
pray, we shall surely see, at last, God's love and blessing blossoming
before us like the holly-stick, and overshadowing us like the great
tree.
There is another legend about an ancient Abbot of Innisfallen, which is
sweet and touching, though I do not see that it has any moral. This
good man was at his prayers one morning, very early, when he heard a
little bird singing so melodiously out among the trees, that he got up
from his knees and followed it. The bird flew from tree to tree, and
still he walked after, for its music was so delicious he could not tire
of it. He thought in his heart that he could listen to it forever, and
he came very near doing that same, for the bird was an enchanted
singer, and so bewitched the priest that he had no idea how the time
went by. At last, he thought that it was about the hour for
vespers--so he gave his blessing to the little bird, and went back into
the abbey. But, when he entered, he was astonished to see only strange
faces and to hear a strange tongue, which was the English, in place of
the Irish. There were monks about, who asked him who he was, and where
he came from. He told them his name, and that he was their Abbot. He
had gone out, he said, in the morning to hear a little bird sing, and
somehow it had kept him following it about the island ever since. Then
they told him that no less than _two hundred years_ had passed since he
went out to hear that singing, and that he had never been seen
since--for being enchanted, he had been invisible. Then the old monk
cried out--"Give me absolution, some of you, for my time is come!"
They gave him absolution, and he died in peace; but just as he was
passing away, there came to the holly-tree, before the window, a little
white bird, and sat and sung the sweetest song ever heard; and when the
soul left the body of the old Abbot, another white bird appeared, and
the two sang together very joyfully for awhile, in the holly tree, and
then flew out into the sunshine, and up into the blue heaven, away!