The Wild Goose/Number 5
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
An Incident in the Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
We can ascertain no doubt that anything in connection with the patriotic nobleman, whose memory is regarded by Irishmen with the deepest affection and esteem, as one of Erin’s most devoted sons, would be heartily welcome to our readers; and presuming, also, that the fact of his having been created a Chief of a North American Indian tribe is not generally known, we cull the following from the "Anecdotes of Enterprise and Adventure," by Ralph and Chandos Temple:—
"Lord Edward Fitzgerald, whose end constitutes one of the most tragic episodes of the Irish rebellion of 1798, conceived, when a young man, a romantic passion for the wild and rough life of the far settlements of America, and having started for Canada, spent a considerable time in those parts. Sometimes he extended his wanderings far beyond the limits of civilized life, and, sojourned for a while with the wild tribes of Indians who treated him with kindness. Pictures of these experiences are drawn by him in his letters, chiefly written to his mother, for whom he always cherished a remarkable affection. Much of his time was spent in rowing his canoe up the rivers into parts of the country which were then unexplored. Having induced several friends to join him, he started on a trial journey, in order to inure himself to the hardships of the Canadian winter, from New Brunswick to Quebec, a distance of 175 miles. It was in the coldest season, with the snow lying deep upon the ground, and their way lay through the woods, and by a route altogether new, or which had never been traversed by any but the Indians. Perilous as such a journey might appear, Fitzgerald states that life in the Canadian woods in the rigorous winter of the climate, was far from being without its charms. The party consisted of five persons, including Lord Edward himself, a friend and brother military officer, a servant named Tony, and two woodsmen. Their baggage was trifling, and consisted chiefly of blankets and provisions, which they hung on canvas, slung on poles. The party kept a reckoning, steering by compass as at sea. At night they found themselves in some degree sheltered from the winds by the leafless woods; and by clearing away the snow, banking it up around, and making a fire in the middle of the space, they found themselves even warmer than in the Canadian houses that rigorous season. ’Three of the coldest nights yet,’ says the enthusiastic young nobleman. I slept in the woods on a bed of spruce fir, with only one blanket, and was just as comfortable as in a room!’ All the rivers had long been completely frozen, and undistinguishable in the snow (which lay four feet deep upon the ground) from the land. The party were always on foot two hours before day, to load, and get ready to march. At three or four in the afternoon they halted; and were then occupied till night in shovelling out the snow, cutting wood, and getting ready for the bivouac. Immediately after supper they were generally asleep, and it was the rule that any one waking in the night should put wood on the fire, eat something—for much food was found essential to maintain warmth—and then sleep again. By day their journey was enlivened by hunting the moose, which they followed in their snow shoes, till the animal, impeded by the frozen snow, turned upon his pursuers, and was thus quickly despatched.
"In this way they passed, in the worst season of the Canadian year, through a wide tract of country which the colonists had always considered impassable. In spite of their compass they diverged considerably from their direct path, and were thirty days on their journey, twenty-six of which were passed in the woods. During this time they saw no human beings but those of their own party; but after making the bank of the river, they fell in with some Indians, who travelled with them to Quebec. The Indians provided the travellers with food during the time they were with them, and otherwise treated them kindly, saying, ’We are all one brother; all one Indian.’ Lord Edward gallantly burdened himself with the pack of one of the squaws, which was so heavy that he could hardly struggle onward with it in the deep snow. ’When we arrived,’ says Fitzgerald in his letter to his mother, ’you may guess what figures we were. We had not shaved or washed during the journey, and our blankets, coats, and trousers were all worn out and pieced. We went to two or three houses, but they would not let us in. There was one old lady exactly like the hostess in "Gil Bias," who told us there was one room—it was without stove or bed—which I might have if I pleased. I told her we were gentlemen. She very quietly said, 'I dare say you are,' and left us.’ At last they obtained lodgings in an alehouse, and became objects of considerable curiosity among the settlers.
"Inured by excursions of this kind, the adventurous Lord Edward subsequently set out on a much longer journey—his intention being to pass from Quebec, through the country of the Indians, to Detroit and Fort Pitt, and thence to New Orleans, thus traversing the whole length of the North American continent, his intention being then to extend his journey through Mexico, to the silver mines of Spanish America. The celebrated Indian chief, who had visited England under the name of Joseph Brant, but whose true name was Thayendanegea, accompanied him, and assisted him in all his canoe journeys up and down the rivers in their course. Between Thayendanegea and Lord Edward a strong friendship had sprung up, and the Indian proved a faithful friend. They crossed the great Lake Ontario together, and passed through a number of Indian villages. Everywhere the wild tribes treated them with kindness and respect. With the Bear Tribe at Detroit they stayed some time, and Fitzgerald gives a glowing account of their happy lives, and the simplicity of their manners. So strong, indeed, was the attachment that sprang up between them that the Indians determined to adopt the stranger into their tribe, and make him one of their chiefs. This ceremony was accomplished through the medium of the chief of the Six Nations! whom the Americans knew under the name of David Hill. The document by which this wild honour was conferred upon him was found, after Lord Edward's death, among his papers, written in the Indian language, of which the following is a translation:—
"I, David Hill, chief of the Six Nations, give the name of Eghindal to my friend, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, for which I hope he will remember me as long as he lives.
"The name belongs to the Bear Tribe."
"After eight months' wanderings, Lord Edward arrived at New Orleans, by the way of the Mississippi. Here, having announced to the authorities his intention of proceeding to the silver mines of Spanish America, permission was refused him, and he was compelled to return to Europe."
Log.—Saturday 1st Dec. 35°0’S.; 15°15’W. 2nd, 36°40’S.; 11°40’W. 3rd, 38°53’S.; 7°42’W. 4th 40°06’S.; 5°00’W. 5th 40°39’S.; 3°46’ W. 6th, 41°25’S.; 2°01’W. 7th, 40°50’S.; 0°02’E.
Musings.
Away across the wild ocean, from Erin of the Streams, we still pursue our compulsory flight to the shores of the southern continent, now cleaving the air with strong and swift pinion, and now gliding easily along on the scarcely riffled surface of the vast watery expanse. Scarce twenty years have elapsed since others winged their way over nearly the same path, some of whom, after a short sojourn under the austral sky, sought more congenial climes; some returned to their favourite haunts, and others, plumming themselves for a last flight, shaped their course for spheres beyond the grave. Farther back in the past, we see the "Wild geese" spreading their pinions for the sunny land of France, and, in gratitude for their kindly reception by its chivalrous people, freely shedding their blood to uphold the honor of the fleur-de-lis. Others again, escaping from the net of the fowler, found their way to the free shores of Columbia, and have been ever amongst the foremost to respond to her calls to arms in defence of her liberties; in the late unhappy struggle for pre-eminence between the federal and Confederate States, cementing the union with their life-blood. But a little time ago, we wandered light-hearted and free o’er hill and dale, or sported luxuriously in the bright waters of our island home. Our banished flock, collected together from the shores of the charming lakes of Killarney, whose exquisite scenery might well induce the Queen of Fairyland to establish her elfin court within their precincts, whilst Naiads and Nereids disported themselves in the pellucid waters, on summer eve, to the ravishing strains of enchanted harps; from the lovely vales of the murmuring Lee, the broad, glistening Shannon, and the historic Boyne; or from the sternly picturesque coasts of our sea-girt isle,—speed on, still on, upon the bosom of the storm-winds, o’er the boisterous Atlantic, to our far prison-home. As we list to the hoarse roar of the wild waves, or watch the icthyic monsters as they chase each other sportively through the briny element, sad thoughts come over us. We wonder if the mighty sea contains within its unfathomable depths more mysteries than the heart of man. We try to discover if those who have gone before us have left any trace on its surface, that we might mark and learn. We ask the weird winds, as they fold us in their rough embrace, if they have passed over the place of our future exile, and if so, what tidings they bring from it. We ask, does the sun shine as bright, and is nature as generous to the soil as in our own home? Will the kindly fruits of the earth beat our disposal? Will the sun shine for us in that strange land? is the atmosphere of such nature that it can ever change our hearts, and estrange us from one another or the land of our sires? Is the climate conducive to health and long life? or is it calculated to shorten the existence of the young and tender bird,—to crush the egg before it is hatched? Shall we ever retrace our flight? And, if so, in what state shall we find our old home, and how shall we be received? Mournfully the winds wail in response:—"Alas! sad is your fate. We would answer your questions satisfactorily, if it were in our power; but we are unable to do so. The secrets of the future cannot be read by us. One only can reveal them, and in due season he will disclose all that is fit to be known. Trust Him, and believe us, messengers of His will, that hereafter, when all is known, you will worship Him in admiration and awe, and despise your own shortsightedness that could not perceive the wisdom of His way." Silently we drink in the admonition of the winds, and resolve that we shall be calmly resigned to whatever may befall, conscious that our own destiny is in the hands of an All-Wise and Beneficent Being. Then the fierce winds, mollified by our submissive aspect, gradually subside, and softly whisper, "Courage! every cloud has a silver lining. Murmur not at the decrees of the Most High.
"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face."
We then ask them if they will tell us whither they are bound. Mildly they reply, as they gently fan us, "we will sweep the broad ocean, tempering the burning heat of the tropic sun to the half-fainting voyager as he passes through the torrid zone, and, bearing aloft the ocean-spray to the clouds, convey it as refreshing dew to the arid soil of Africa, and to the islands and mainland of Europe to saturate the ground in preparation for forthcoming fruits and flowers." Moving them to linger a space, we ask them to bear kisses of love to a golden-haired and blue-eyed damsel, whose prayers we hear in fancy as they ascend to heaven for our welfare, and beg them to steal the pearly tears that moisten her fair round cheek at thought of us, and waft them, "ere the leviathan can swim a league," to our yearning lips. We send words of love and cheer to the dear friends we left behind, assuring them that we ever take with us the impress of their fond features and recollection of their deep affection; that though a snow-white plumage may be slightly soiled by foul association,—not of our own choosing,—we can maintain our dignity unruffled,—our honor maintained, and that the memory of the dear land of our birth shall never fade from our souls. So the sympathizing winds, bidding us farewell, speed homeward with our heart-messages; and as they dally with maiden tresses, will breath into her joyful ears the welcome tidings:—
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Laudable Ambition.
Laudable ambition stimulates a man to endeavour to do well himself, and rejoice to see his neighbour do better. To delight in, and take every opportunity of exerting all the powers of which he may be possessed towards honoring our Creator, and serving our fellow human-beings, is not only laudable, but the highest and most noble use to which human ambition can be applied; it is indeed the very end for which it was given. Whenever we see a man exerting his powers to these purposes, nothing would be more unjust to him, or more detrimental to society, than to attribute them to ostentation. We are too apt to judge of others by ourselves; when we see another possess such qualifications as would make us proud, we, without farther evidence, conclude him to be so. Thus superior intelligence always attracts envious eyes; and what virtue will not envy construe into vice? That ambition can never be justly blamed which produces, or endeavours to produce, public good; but some are so envious that they cannot see any shining talent in another without snarling at it, like dogs barking at the moon.
To curb such ambition, and check our just censures, we should look well into, and study that living book—our own hearts; for nothing will so effectually suppress ostentation as to know ourselves. He that most clearly perceives his own imperfections will be the last to seek out and condemn those of others.—Extract.
Continental people say that the English people are so arrogant, that they expect their own language to be understood by everybody. The following is given as an instance: At a table d’hote in Baden-Baden, a milord, when dessert had been served, politely asked a German lady, in his own vernacular, if he could help her to some peaches. Understanding his question rather by his manner than his language, the lady replied, "Nein" (No)—"Nine!" ejaculated the astonished Englishman, "there are only six on the plate, but here they are all for you!" rolling them towards her.
Answers to Correspondents.
"A Timid Man" suggests that we should keep the captain and crew in good humour during our voyage to Fremantle; otherwise it may prove very difficult to get ashore if we arrive and they’re cantankerous (and there can’t anchor us). What reason has "A timid Man" to suppose that all hands will not get jolly when we reach Fremantle? But a man capable of maturing such an atrocious attempt at a jeu-de-mot, is base enough to think anything.
"Starveling" wishes to know how to preserve fruits, vegetables, meats, &c.—place them in a room, with a very strong door; keep a close eye on them, and don’t give any to anybody. Thus preserved they will last a very long time.
"Spooney."—Rejected.
SATURDAY, DEC. 7, 1867.
"They’ll come again when south winds blow."
Little Things.
It is said that the happiness and misery, the sweet and bitterness of life, are chiefly if not entirely, made up of small things; and a very slight refection will convince us of the truth of the aphorism. In the every-day intercourse of society, if we examine, we shall find its pleasures and pains are nearly, if not always the result of small causes. How often does a thoughtless, ill-natured word, lightly spoke, engender dislike, which eventually ends in hatred. It is the continual petty fret to one’s feelings, and a disregard to the small courtesies of daily life, that we find more galling and more difficult to bear than the open insult: the latter may be atoned for and forgiven, but the former grows like a canker, spreading over and destroying all social relations. It is harder to bear a continual speck of dust in the eye, or a perpetual toothache, than a broken leg or arm. it is the kind word, the cheerful smile of sympathy, and the small devoirs of life, that cement together our friendship, strengthen that band of brotherhood that should exist amongst all men, and smooths over the path of life. How often has a kind word,—a look, a tone, turned away wrath, and soothed us into forgetfulness of the most disagreeable troubles? A kind, encouraging word, and the current of a mans life is changed. He takes courage—the desponding one is rendered self-confident, and hope takes the place of despair. One rash judgement,—a suspicion unguardedly expressed,—and a character is blasted—it may be a soul lost. A cold look—a frown—and a heart is brighter. A loving glance—a smile—and the destiny of two hearts is fixed for ever. A tear—"One touch of nature makes the world a Kin."
If we examine why it is that certain men and nations are distinguished for ther cultivation and polish, we will invariably find that their excellence to consist or to rest in a much greater extent than at first sight appears, upon small things; and the surest mark,—the test of a higher state of cultivation and elegance—consists not "so much of things that strike us at first sight, but rather in small things, that diminish to almost microscopic importance as we ascend to the more polished state of refinement. We know a gentleman not by the costly richness or peculiar cut of his dress, or by the value of his jewelry,—not by his keeping his face and hands clean and his hair brushed; these tracts are common to all;—but rather, he is distinguished by his attention to much more minute things. So it is with perfection in any branch of trade or the Arts, and in all the diverse occupations of life,—when a man excels his competitors, we find it not the result of anything more extraordinary and striking than the possession of, or attention to, some small thing that gives him his prominence. We cannot perceive the delicate touches by which the artist and sculptor daily cause to shine out the life and mind from the canvas or the marble, yet these imperceptible touches are perfection.
What great results arise from small things! The fall of an apple lead to the discovery of the laws of attraction and gravitation. In war, plans are conceived and matured upon which may depend on the fate, not of an individual, but of a nation,—of nations. The time arrives to put them in execution, and owing to some apparently trivial negligence,—to some unforeseen trifle—the plan, matured at the cost of so many sleepless nights and so much treasure, ends in disaster, and, it may be, in the ruin of a people. A complicated machine or Engine, of almost invaluable worth, by the fault of the smallest of its screws, the slightest inaccuracy of in the smallest cog of its most diminutive wheel—an imperceptible flaw—is rendered useless, or totally wrecked, carrying destruction to all around.
This we see the almost paramount importance of what are often termed trifles. Upon them is based our judgement of men and things,—Upon them, nearly, if not always, depends the success or failure—the happenings or misery of life. Their study is the true philosopher’s stone of man of the world, vive la bagatelle!
Past.—Present.—Future.
Words of mighty import but suggestive of things so immense that finite human reason is stunned at the contemplation. They contain everything—they are in themselves everything. Two of these words represent realities—or (if we may say so) at least abstract realities. These two words are Past and Future. The third—the Present—which at first sight appears most real—is on consideration a fraud—a deception. The past! Oh! the past is a reality indeed! A sad, stern reality. Our first emotion on seeing that word is naturally one of sorrow. The past is a vast picture—now painted in glowing tints—now sunk in blackest night—varying in scene and color, in light and shade for everyone: but in the very brightest there is a saddening tinge mingled with its shading; and those who can only see its darkness and gloom are indeed deserving of our compassion. But in even the darkest there are bright spots to be found, if we will only search for them; and but for ourselves there would be many more. We look back at the past, and therefore we imagine that it is something shaped of itself into its present aspect.—This is a mistake. We made the past as it is.—We painted the picture—and if it causes pain we alone are to blame. If dark and cheerless, why linger on it? Learn what it teaches, and cast it aside.—Remember, we are adding to it day by day,—and so on to the end. Turn from it, look boldly to the future, and determine to make the remainder of the picture all the more bright and cheerful, and you will forget its sadness and its gloom.
The present is only a name,—a combination of letters representing—nothing: and still it has a strange power of affecting is in various ways:—it cheers, it amuses, and anon it drowns us in despair—and all is deception—nothing real! The Present is sometimes and angel—often a friend: and even under the bright wigs of an angel there is concealed a shadowy horror that should deter us from drinking too deeply of the pleasures it offers. Shun the angel: shrink not from the fiend. It is only the brush moving over the blank sheet of the future and tracing the indelible panorama of the past.
But of greatest import to us now is the dim blank filed of the Future. Swiftly and steadily is the unstained page being filled in: thought, word, and act, are being stamped there for ever as the ponderous cylinder of time revolves. It is vain to attempt to pierce its hazy veil,—it is futile to endeavour to read what has not yet been written: but we may, and we ought, to picture to ourselves that future bright and happy as we would wish it to be.—The past is gone from us—unalterable. The future is in our hands now,—pliant and impressible as wax, and we are moulding it into form day by day. Will that form shed a cheering beam on our path, or will it cast around us a web of despondency? The end will reveal.
Look back—far back into the past; and, although strange, we will find our position is no anomaly. From our little island home, at different periods, have "The Wild Geese" winged their flight—some into voluntary exile—others driven over the wide world by the unsparing hand. They too, looked forward into the future and tried in vain to read the mysterious page; and we can look back and trace their chequered wandering, learning wisdom and gaining strength as we look on their trials, their struggles, and their end. Their dearest affections were surely snapped asunder; their home ties were severed, and they wandered over the world—fighting the battles and aiding the Councils of Strangers: but one grand memorial shines out from their various ways to cheer us on and stir us to emulation:—wherever they went, or in whatever duty engaged, they nobly upheld the unstained name, honor, and bravery of their race. Scattered far and wide are the graves of the "Wild geese": they lie wherever fields were fiercely fought; and the halo of light which memory and love sheds over their graves will be a beacon guiding us on through whatever scenes the future may have in store for us.
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Live it down.
When in life’s battle onward fighting,
Struggling bravely day and night,
One only ray your rough path lighting—
Inward unconsciousness of right.
be true and trustful—never falter—
E’en though fate may seem to frown;
Your purpose let her frown not alter:
Courage, brother! live it down.
Should calumny’s sharp tongue assail you
Breathing venom,—undismayed,
Let not heart nor courage fail you,
At its hiss be not afraid.
When cynic envy, coward sneering,
Would the voice of conscience drown,
Still on—unswerving and unfearing:
Courage, brother! live it down.
Still forward—calm and self-reliant,
Disdainful of the little mind;
Of scoffing ignorance defiant,
Aside not looking, nor behind.
Still persevere in right forever:
Perseverance wins the crown.
Right ever conquers—wrong will never:
Courage, brother! live it down.
Prison Thoughts.—II.
Next Memory turns to free Columbia’s shore,
And conjures up the blissful hours spent there
’Mongst cherished friends whom I may meet no more;
But Hope, soft whispering, bids me not despair.
And thou, dear friend, whose genial nature drew
All hearts to thee in Friendship’s flowery bonds,
’Art ever near, and still, in Fancy’s view,
Thy willing smile to my fond wish responds.
How sweet upon our prospects to converse,
And proudly prophesy for each success!
We, light and careless, thought not in reverse,
But fondly dreamed of love and happiness.
Foul Discord through the land dissension sowed,
And bloody war spread horror far and wide;
And he pursued the path that duty showed,
And fought and bled and for his Country died.
Sleep, Soldier of the north! and take thy rest,
Thy tombstone wreathed with glory’s laurel crown,
Thy sword in honor lain across thy breast,
Unheeding the false World’s colds smile or frown.
Soft Spirit—whispers fall upon my ear,
By orange-scened gales borne o’er the foam:
"Thy friend in glory lives; be of good cheer!
Thou yet shalt meet him in a happier home."
Memory.
I love in memory to recall those days of peace and joy,
To blot out wordly wiles and cares, and feel again a boy;
To play among the Boyne’s green banks, or through the wildwood roam;
To paint in Fancy’s eye once more my dear old childhood home.
Ah, Time! thy hand may sour the face and sow the wintry hair;
But from my heart those tender thoughts thou shalt not—can not—tear.
Though far removed from that dear spot, yet still I love to trace
The river winding through the vale, each bright young schoolmates face,
To roam bird-nesting far from home,—to hear the noisy mill,—
Yes, all are dear! but one loved thought is brighter, dearer still.
’Twas down beside the Boyne’s green banks, beneath the leafy shade,
I told my boyish love-tale to a little brown-haired maid.
’Twas there I heard the whispered words that filled my sould with bliss,
And planted first on Mary’s lips a lingering lover’s kiss.
—All past and gone those dreams of joy! all fled and nought remains!
But memory’s potent spell recalls their pleasures and their pains.
I pay that God may guard thy steps, and bless thee, Mary, dear;
I’ll never see thee more; but yet I know thou’lt drop a tear
For him who loved thee first of all—who first thy lips impressed,
And told tee how to love thee, with thy cheek upon his breast.
Oh. Memory! blest gift of God, continue still to pour
Thy softening influence my heart till this short life is o’er,
Some crush thy spells, because thy joys may leave a trace of pain,—
But wisdom,—purest brightest gem,—we oft through sorrow gain.
Friendship
When bleak misfortune’s frown I feel,
And painful thoughts my brain oppress,
’Tis then in friendship’s sweet appeal
I find relief for lost caress
Of loving wife, whose soothings tender
To oft my weary spirits cheered,
Or lisping child whose laugh would render
A blissful balm when grief appeared
Though far away from my heart’s treasure,—
Far, far, from all on earth I love,—
I find in friendships hand a pressure
That cheers my path where e’er I rove.
Oft pausing, when the deck i pace,
Strange forms I see around me thronging;
A genial smile lights up a face
To greet me: then with ardent longing
For sympathetic friend I sigh,—
For one whose words my heart would brighten,
To whom I’d talk of days gone by,
And try my bosom’s load to lighten.
Again I look with anxious glancing,
And seek one friend amongst them all:
Ah! now a dear friend is advancing,—
he saw and understood the call.
Oh, friendship! thou’rt a pricless gem;—
Aye! dearer far than brightest gold;
Thy rays can glad the heart of him
When worldly riches ne’er consoled.
Two Days at Killarney.
(Continued from our last.)
As we passed along this road which descended in its circuit, a view of the Upper Lake presented itself to our gaze, gradually increasing as we advanced. Its bright waters, speckled with the islands of a deep green, and its irregular boundary indented with miniature bays, reposed between the picturesque mountains which almost surrounded them. Dismounting at Lord Brandon’s demesne, we gave the ponies in charge to a boy, and walked to the lake, where our boat was lying in wait for us; and stepping in, we set off for Killarney, our bugler playing at several places where an echo could be heard. We glided down through the Long range to the Old Weir Bridge, where the current turns at a furious rate and at this time was greatly increased by the previous night’s rain. It was suggested by some of our party that we should put to shore and go by land to the other side of the bridge, whilst the crew would take down the boat by a chain, in the same manner that they had brought her up; but an old boatman pulling the stroke oar, jokingly said there was no fear of an accident whilst there was a O’Donohue in the boat; that he had the good luck of that name, and was rowing on the lakes for the last forty years, in all sorts of weather, and neither he nor his boat ever met with an accident. This tempted me to ask him to relate some legend of the lakes, as I could judge by his unaffected tone that he could do it in an interesting way. He promised to do so when we got clear of the "cross" places which we had to pass. We trusted to the old man’s experience, and felt satisfied to our safety. Some distance above the bridge, the oars were lifted from their rowlocks, and two of them taken in; the other two were kept slung from the side of the boat for the purpose of guiding her through, should the helm be knocked out of its place. The boat moved smoothly and rapidly to the bridge, and then plunged with great velocity into the gurgling stream, sinking her bows under the water, then rising again, swept thro’ the rough current which curled and tossed in its rocky course, and gradually decreased as it entered the back channel; in passing through we saw some of the fine specimens of the red deer, which are wild on the mountains. the were lying in the brushwood, not far from the water’s edge; but at the approach of our boat, they bounded away, and soon disappeared. When we got to the Lower Lake, the old boatman, after indulging himself with a whiff from a short black pipe,—from which he puffed volumes of smoke,—and a drink of "the hard stuff," as he called it, thus commenced the legend of O’Donohue’s enchantment:—
"Long ago, O’Donohue was lord of all these mountains and lakes, and of as much land as the best race-horse in the country couldn’t run around in a day—from Glenflesk to Castle Island. He was very fond of stag hunting on the mountains, and used to have the O’Sullivans of Twomeys, the McCarthy Mores, and all the great men of the country hunting with him. At that time, the gintlemen used to follow the stag though the mountains, no matther where he went to; for they wouldn’t give a traneen to sit here in a boat, like the sportsmin that hunt here now, listening to the dogs howling on the mountains, and can’t see the stag at all, unless he’s jaded out, and must take the water.
One day, O’Donohue and his party started a fine stag on the Purple Mountains, and chased him along by the lake, through Twomeys, then out through a gap at Dunloe, and on through Magillicuddy’s Rocks, over mountains and valleys. He was swifter than any deer they ever before hunted; so that dogs and huntsmen were all obliged to give up, except O’Donohue, who followed him everywhere he turned, until night came on, when he found himself just at the place from which he started, and couldn’t chase him any farther, as it was dark. As he was sitting on a rock, resting himself, and thinking of the stag that baffled him, he heard the sweetest music ever he heard before, at some distance from him. He walked towards it, and as he was turning around a rock, behind which he heard the music, he saw a fine young lady, dressed in white, and her hair decked with mountain roses. He was at once ’taken’ with her great beauty, and was not able to speak to her for some time. At length, he advanced and spoke to her; and after some conversation, he invited her to a ball which was to be held at his castle on May-eve, and she promised that she would go. Well, the time of the ball came, and the young lady was as good as her word: she was there that night and charmed the whole party with her accomplishments. As O’Donohue was dancing with her, at day-break, suddenly both of them fled through the window, across the lakes, and was never seen at the castle since. Every seven years since, at May-eve, they cross the lake by moonlight, and the grandest music that was ever heard playing after them. That was well and good, but no one knew where all his money went to; for it was known that he had a mighty lot of it. Some people said that he took it with him, and others said it was buried at the bottom of the lakes. However, there was one Tim O’Donohue, who lived on Twomeys, dhramed twice of a man of his own name never to be drowned, in the lakes, and also of crocks of goold that was buried somewhere. Tim was full sure if he could drame the third time about it, that he would surely make out where the goold was. One evening he came across to Killarney with his little brat, and when he wanted to go back again at night, he found he couldn’t, as the lake was very rough, and he didn’t like to try it, as he had a small drop taken; so he tied the boat to a tree, in a cosy little nook near Ross Island, and fell asleep in it. Sometime coming on morning, he woke up, and to his great surprise, the lake was as smooth as a sheet of glass. He rubbed his eyes to see that they were not deceiving him, but they were not; and more than that, he saw a man mounted on a white horse, with golden shoes, riding cross towards him on the top of the water. "As sure as I live," says Tim, "this is O’Donohue;" and true enough for him, for very soon he spoke to him, calling him by his name, and asked him how he was, and what kept him out from his wife and children the whole night. "Please yer honor," sez Tom, "I’m very well; but I was afraid to cross the lake last night, it was so rough, altho’ I’m sure Nelly will be uneasy about me," "well, now," sez O’Donohue, "don’t you know that no man of my name will be drowned in these lakes as long as I’m enchanted." "Begorra, I dramed twice about that," sez Tim; "and about some crocks of Goold that was hid in some place, and I was sure if I dramed the third time about it I’d surely make it out." "Well," sez O’Donohue, "that goold is buried" and he had only just time to finish that word when the sun began to shine over Mangerton; then he sunk into the lake, and the horse turned into stone where he was.
"Be me sowl," sez tim, "me drames were right; but wasn’t it a pity the sun got up just at the time when he was going to tell me where the good was." So Tim went home as mad with himself as ever he could be, but was never afterwards in dread, or any of his name, to go on the lakes in the worst of the weather. Nelly, nor any of the neighbours, couldn’t believe what he told them about O’Donohue; but when they saw the stone horse standing in the water they said he must be right. And gintlemen, said the old boatman, "there is the horse yonder; as true an image of a horse as you ever saw; but his head fell off a few years ago."
As he had the interesting legend finished, our boat was passing that well-known rock, called "The O’Donohue’s Rock," on our way to Ross Quay, where we landed, well pleased with our "two days in Killarney."
Many of the inhabitants of the "Hougoumont" display a wonderful love of flours. They have had several nice little plots to bring them up, and already one or two have succeeded in getting a good blow-out.
There is a man on board so fond of milk that he has several times attempted to milk the ship, but failed, as he could not get at her (r)udder.
Correspondence.
To the Editor of the "Wild Geese."
Dear Sir,—I have derived great pleasure from the weekly perusal of your paper, since its first issue, and I avail myself of its extensive ocean circulation—a circulation of unlimited latitude—to place prominently before the public a fact which, I presume, I am the first to discover—at least which I am the first to ventilate. But this is not to be wondered at, as it is seldom such an extraordinary smart and observant man—possessing such a wonderful genius for speculation of all sorts—travels in these parts. I allude to the astounding act that the principle of trades’ unions in entirely unknown in these latitudes. Near the equator (north and south), I was happy to find the principle established. The trade winds there work well, as any captain who traverses those regions must acknowledge. Now, sir, I suggest to all concerned, that at once this co-operative system should be extended to these latitudes; and through the columns of your invaluable paper, I offer my invaluable services to organize a Trade Wind Society on a most effective basis. I therefore trust that you will take steps to convene a public meeting to take the matter into consideration. Of course, should a company be formed, I expect to be appointed Secretary, and to receive from a grateful public a material acknowledgement of my disinterested services.
The excessively unpleasant weather of the past week has damped not alone the clothes, but the spirits of our staff. We trust, therefore, that our readers and correspondents will wait with beconing patience till next week for many things which they may have expected to see this.
Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, Intermediate Cabin, for the Editors, Messrs. John Flood and John B. O’Reilly.