We quitted the church, and were proceeding to visit the rock near the Shannon, upon which the English signed the treaty after the battle of the Boyne; a treaty which they have not been remarkably scrupulous in observing. I remarked that we were followed by an immense crowd of people, which increased like an avalanche, and testified equal respect and enthusiasm. All on a sudden they shouted “Long life to Napoleon and Marshal ——.” “Good God,” said I, “for whom do the people take me? As a perfectly unpretending stranger I cannot in the least degree understand why they seem disposed to do me so much honour.” “Was not your father the Prince of ——?” said O’Connell. “Oh no,” replied I; “my father was indeed a nobleman of rather an older date, but very far from being so celebrated.” “You must forgive us then,” said O’Connell incredulously; “for to tell you the truth, you are believed to be a natural son of Napoleon, whose partiality to your supposed mother was well known.” “You joke,” said I laughing: “I am at least ten years too old to be the son of the great emperor and the beautiful princess.” He shook his head, however, and I reached my inn amid reiterated shouts. Here I shut myself up, and shall not quit my retreat to-day. The people, however, patiently posted themselves under my windows, and did not disperse till it was nearly dark.
Tralee, Sept. 23rd.
This morning I was again received with cries of “Long life to Napoleon and your honour!” And while my servant, who was seated in my carriage, and passed for Napoleon’s son, drove off in the midst of cheers and acclamations, I slipped out at a back-door, with a lad who carried my travelling bag, and took my place in the stage, which was to convey me to the lake of Killarney. My people had orders to wait for me in Cashel, where I shall probably rejoin them in a fortnight.
With my present simple exterior no human being thought of assailing me with homage; and I could not help philosophizing on this public farce, and thinking how often the desire of glory and renown leads only to disguise and false assumption. Certainly of all the dreams of life this is the most shadowy! Love sometimes satisfies, knowledge tranquilizes, art gladdens and amuses; but ambition, ambition gives only the tormenting passion of a hunger which nothing can allay,—a chase after a phantom which is ever unattainable.
In a quarter of an hour I was comfortably established in the stage-coach. The passengers inside consisted of three women; one fat and jovial, another extremely lean, and a third pretty and well proportioned. There was also a man who had the air of a pedagogue, with a long face, and still longer nose. I sat entrenched between the two slender ladies, and conversed with the corpulent one, who was very talkative. On my letting down a window she told us that she had lately been nearly sea-sick in this very coach, because an ailing lady who sat opposite to her would not allow a window to be opened on any account. That she, however, did not give it up; and after a quarter of an hour’s persuasion had succeeded in prevailing on the lady to admit of one inch of air; a quarter of an hour after another inch, and so on, till she manœuvered the whole window open. “Excellent,” said I; “that is exactly the way in which women manage to get all they wish; first one inch, and then—as much as they want. How differently do men act under similar circumstances,” continued I. “An English writer, in his directions to travellers, says, that if anybody in the mail should insist on keeping all the windows closed, you should not enter into any ‘pour parler’ with him, but immediately thrust your elbow through the window as if by accident, beg his pardon, and quietly enjoy the cool air.” The ruins of Adair now attracted our attention, and interrupted the conversation. Further on the Shannon appeared in all its grandeur. In some parts it is like an American river, nine miles broad, and its shores finely wooded. At Lisdowel, a little place where we dined, hundreds of beggars assembled as usual about the coach. One novelty struck me; they had little wooden cups fixed at the end of long sticks, which they reached in at the window, and thus more conveniently secured the desired ‘pence.’ One beggar had built himself a sort of sentry-box of loose stones in the road, in which he seemed to remain in a state of perpetual bivouac. I must conclude; for the mail drives off again in a few hours, and I want rest. More to-morrow.
Killarney, Sept. 24th.
In the course of to-day I saw twelve rainbows, a bad omen for the steadiness of the weather; but I receive it as a good one for me. It promises me a many-coloured journey. The company had dropped off, one by one, like ripe fruit, and I found myself alone with an Irish gentleman, a manafacturer from the north, when I entered the pretty cheerful town of Killarney, where the incessant resort of English tourists has almost introduced into the inns English elegance and English prices. We immediately inquired for boats, and for the best way of seeing the lake, but were told that it was imposible to go on in such a storm: no boat could ‘live on the lake,’ as the fisherman expressed it. An English dandy, who had joined us during breakfast, ridiculed these assurances; and as I, you know, am also rather incredulous about impossibilities, we outvoted the manufacturer, who showed very little ardour for the undertaking, and embarked, ‘malgré vent et marée,’ near Ross Castle, an old ruin not far from Killarney.
We had a capital boat, an old characteristic-looking grey-headed steersman, and four sturdy rowers. The heaven was as if torn open; in some places blue, in others various shades of gray; but for the most part raven-black. Clouds of all forms rolled in wild disorder, now and then tinged by a rainbow, or lighted by a pale sunbeam. The high mountains scarcely appeared through their gloomy veil, and on the lake all was like night. The Black waves heaved in busy and ceaseless tumult; here and there one bore a crest of snow-white foam. As the motion was nearly as great as at sea, I was slightly sea-sick. The manufacturer was pale from fear; the young Englishman, proud of his amphibious nature, laughed at us both. Meanwhile the storm piped so loud that we could hardly hear each other speak; and when I asked the old steersman where we should land first, he said, “At the Abbey, if we can land anywhere.” This did not sound encouraging. Our boat, which was the only one on the lake, for even the fishermen would not venture out, danced so fearfully up and down without making the smallest way, in spite of all the efforts of the rowers, that the manufacturer began to think of wife, children and manufactory, and peremptorily insisted on returning, as he had no intention of sacrificing his life to a party of pleasure. The dandy on the other hand was ready to burst with laughter: he protested that he was a member of the Yacht Club, and had seen very different sort of danger from this; and promised the rowers, who would rather have been at home, money without end if they would but hold out. For my own part, I followed General Yermoloff’s maxim, “neither too rash nor too timid,” took no part in the contest, wrapped myself in my cloak, and awaited the issue in peace. It seems I had all the beauty of the scene to myself; one of my companions being prevented from seeing it by fear, the other by self-complacency. For some time we struggled with the waves, on which we floated like sea-birds in storm and darkness; till at last such a violent wind came upon us from a gorge in the mountains opposite to which we lay, that it grew rather too serious even for the ‘member of the Yacht Club,’ and he acceded to the request of the steersman, to row back with the wind, and land on an island till the storm abated a little, which was generally the case about noon.
This happened as he predicted: and after encamping for some hours in Innisfallen, a lovely little islet with beautiful groups of trees and ruins, we were able to continue our voyage. All the islands of this little lake, even to the smallest, called the Mouse, which is only a few yards long, are thickly clothed with arbutus, and other evergreens. They grow wild; and both in summer and in winter enliven the scene with the bright colours of their flowers and fruit. The forms of many of these islets are as curious as their names. They are generally called after O’Donaghue. Here is O’Donaghue’s ‘White Horse,’ on whose rocky hoofs the surf breaks; there, his ‘Library;’ further on, his ‘Pigeon-house,’ or his ‘Flower-garden;’ and so on. But you do not know how the lake of Killarney arose. Listen then.
O’Donaghue was the powerful chieftain of a clan inhabiting a great and opulent city, which stood where the lake now rolls its waters. It had everything in abundance except water; and the legend says, that the only little spring which it possessed was the gift of a mighty sorcerer, who called it up at the prayer of a beautiful virgin; adding a solemn warning, that they should never forget to close it every evening with a large silver cover which he left for that purpose. The strange forms and ornaments seemed to confirm this wonderful command; and never was the old custom neglected.