n ancient times, the castle was
owned by an Irish chief named Shane O'Donovan, noted for his bad traits of
character, being merciless in war, tyrannical in peace, feared by his
neighbors, hated by his dependents, and detested by everybody for his
inhospitality and want of charity. His castle then stood by the bank of
the lake, on an elevated promontory, almost an island, being joined to the
mainland by a narrow isthmus, very little above the water level.

By chance there came into that part of Ireland an angel who had been sent
from heaven to observe the people and note their piety. In the garb and
likeness of a man, weary and footsore with travel, the angel spied the
castle from the hills above the lake, came down, and boldly applied for a
night's lodging. Not only was his request refused, "but the oncivil Shane
O'Donovan set an his dogs fur to bite him." The angel turned away, but no
sooner had he left the castle gate than the villagers ran 'round him and a
contest ensued as to which of them should entertain the traveller. He made
his choice, going to the house of a cobbler who was "that poor that he'd
but the wan pitatee, and when he wanted another he broke wan in two." The
heavenly visitor shared the cobbler's potato and slept on the cobbler's
floor, "puttin' his feet into the fire to kape thim warrum," but at
daylight he rose, and calling the inhabitants of the village, led them
out, across the isthmus to a hill near by, and bid them look back. They
did so, beholding the castle and promontory separated from the mainland
and beginning to subside into the lake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the
castle sank, while the waters rose around, but stood like a wall on every
side of the castle, not wetting a stone from turret to foundation. At
length the wall of water was higher than the battlements, the angel waved
his hand, the waves rushed over the castle and its sleeping inmates, and
the O'Donovan inhospitality was punished. The angel pointed to a spot near
by, told the villagers to build and prosper there; then, as the
awe-stricken peasants kneeled before him, his clothing became white and
shining, wings appeared on his shoulders, he rose into the air and
vanished from their sight.

Of somewhat different origin is the pretty Lough Derryclare, in Connemara,
south of the Joyce Country. The ferocious O'Flahertys frequented this
region in past ages, and, with the exception of Oliver Cromwell, no
historical name is better kn