One Irish Summer

by William Eleroy Curtis

The O’Donaghue is the hero of most of the legends. He is identified with almost every island and with almost every glen. The legends all agree that the men and women who inhabited the lovely valley did not perish with him, but The O’Donaghue lives at the bottom of the lake in a gorgeous palace, surrounded by congenial friends and enjoys feasting and folly as much as he did before the flood. Every seven years in the summer he comes to the surface, and makes a journey from one end of the lakes to the other, riding a splendid white stallion, in an armor of gold and a helmet that glitters with diamonds. He gallops through the town and around the mountains just as he did when he was the lord of the land, and will continue to do so until the silver shoes on the hoofs of his stallion are worn out. Blessings are showered upon every one who is fortunate enough to see him. If a girl can catch a glimpse of this brilliant knight as he makes his midnight journey she is sure to be married before the end of the year.

O’Donaghue’s horse, his prison, his stable, his library, his cellar, his pulpit, his table, his broom, and various other things that belonged to him are pointed out among the rocks upon the islands of the shore. Every freak of nature has some association with him.

Scores of peasants may be found who have actually seen him, and half the population believe in his seven-year visits. Many curious stories of which O’Donaghue is the hero have been invented in the generations that have passed by imaginative mothers to entertain their children. When I asked a thoughtful jaunting car driver if he believed in the periodical appearance of the ancient lord of the lake, he answered:

“Wall, I dunno’, I dunno’; me mither tould me the tale wid her own blessed lips; me wife has tould it jist the same to our own children, and I am shure The O’Donaghue isn’t in Killarney the rist of the toime, and why shouldn’t he have the pleasure of comin’ for one noight?”

St. Patrick never came to Killarney, but the legend is that he climbed up to the top of the tallest mountain, stretched out his hands over the lakes and said: “I bless all beyint the reeks” (mountains).

Fin MacCool kept his tubs of gold in the lake near Muckross Abbey and his dog Bran watched them. “One day a brute of an Englishman, an’ a great diver intirely, came over to git the goold, and when he wint down into the wather the dog Bran sazed him by the trousers and shook the life out of him until he died, and his ghost has been wanderin’ around there ivir sence.”

The shore of the lake under the windows of Ross Castle is strewn with curious-looking flat stones. They are the books of his library which The O’Donaghue threw out of the window when he was mad one day, and they turned to rocks.

When The O’Donaghue was a slip of a boy and was sitting in front of the castle an old woman came running along shrieking that the O’Sullivans had come through the pass from County Cork and were stealing the cattle. “The O’Donaghue, thin only thirteen years old, bedad, seizes an oulde sword and kills every mother’s son of the thaving blaggards, an’ sticks their bodies up agin the wall as a warning to all the ruffians of the clans beyant the mountains.

“When The O’Donaghue was a young man and went into his first battle he slew six hundred of his enemies in a single day. He fought so long and became so tired that his legs and arms would have fallen off his body if they hadn’t been held together by his armor.

“One day when Ossian, the poet, came to Killarney he met an old priest trying to carry a sack of corn on his back. Ossian relieved him of the burden. The priest called on the Holy Virgin to bless him, whereupon Ossian said, ‘I help you because you are an old man and not for the sake of virgins or married women or widdies,’ for Ossian was a hathen and he didn’t know any better, an’ how could he know what the holy father meant when he sphoke of the Blessed Virgin? But, nevertheless, the curse was on him, and in a minute he was an ould shrivelled, crippled crater, a dale oulder than the priest whose sack of corn he was carrying. And all this for takin’ the name of Blessed Virgin in vain, and not knowing any better. But the priest, with a few words of prayer, relaved the enchantment and converted Ossian to Christianity on the sphot.”