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,
