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.