by Edited
THE LEGEND OF O’DONOGHUE*
T. CROFTON CROKER
In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain named O’Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and justice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called “O’Donoghue’s Prison,” in which this prince once confined his own son for some act of disorder and disobedience.
His end—for it cannot correctly be called his death—was singular and mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the center he paused for a moment, then, turning slowly round, looked toward his friends, and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, disappeared from their view.
The memory of the good O’Donoghue has been cherished by successive generations with affectionate reverence; and it is believed that at sunrise, on every Mayday morning, the anniversary of his departure, he revisits his ancient domains: a favored few only are in general permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good fortune to the beholders; when it is granted to many it is a sure token of an abundant harvest—a blessing, the want of which during this prince’s reign was never felt by his people.
Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O’Donoghue. The April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on May-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles, after the most tempestuous motions, tempted the stranger to believe that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.
The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud, high-crested war-horse, exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed, mounted upon a milk-white steed that sprang after the wave along the water which bore him up like firm earth. The warrior was O’Donoghue, followed by numberless youths and maidens linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O’Donoghue had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse’s neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants followed with playful deviations the track of their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the wondering beholders; but the sound of their music still fell upon the ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.
RENT DAY
“Oh, ullagone! ullagone! this is a wide world, but what will we do in it, or where will we go?” muttered Bill Doody, as he sat on a rock by the Lake of Killarney. “What will we do? To-morrow’s rent day, and Tim the Driver swears if we don’t pay our rent, he’ll cant every ha’perth we have; and then, sure enough, there’s Judy and myself, and the poor grawls,* will be turned out to starve on the high-road, for never a halfpenny of rent have I!—Oh hone, that ever I should live to see this day!”
Thus did Bill Doody bemoan his hard fate pouring his sorrows to the reckless waves of the most beautiful of lakes, which seemed to mock his misery as they rejoiced beneath the cloudless sky of a May morning. That lake, glittering in sunshine, sprinkled with fairy isles of rock and verdure, and bounded by giant hills of ever-varying hues, might, with its magic beauty, charm all sadness but despair; for alas,
“How ill the scene that offers rest
And heart that cannot rest agree!”
Yet Bill Doody was not so desolate as he supposed; there was one listening to him he little thought of, and help was at hand from a quarter he could not have expected.
“What’s the matter with you, my poor man?” said a tall, portly-looking gentleman, at the same time stepping out of a furze-brake. Now Bill was seated on a rock that commanded the view of a large field. Nothing in the field could be concealed from him, except this furze-brake, which grew in a hollow near the margin of the lake. He was, therefore, not a little surprised at the gentleman’s sudden appearance, and began to question whether the personage before him belonged to this world or not. He, however, soon mustered courage sufficient to tell him how his crops had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his butter, and how Tim the Driver threatened to turn him out of the farm if he didn’t pay up every penny of the rent by twelve o’clock next day.
“A sad story, indeed,” said the stranger; “but surely, if you represented the case to your landlord’s agent, he won’t have the heart to turn you out.”
“Heart, your honor; where would an agent get a heart!” exclaimed Bill. “I see your honor does not know him; besides, he has an eye on the farm this long time for a fosterer of his own; so I expect no mercy at all at all, only to be turned out.”
“Take this, my poor fellow, take this,” said the stranger, pouring a purse full of gold into Bill’s old hat, which in his grief he had flung on the ground. “Pay the fellow your rent, but I’ll take care it shall do him no good. I remember the time when things went otherwise in this country, when I would have hung up such a fellow in the twinkling of an eye!”
These words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to everything but the sight of the gold, and before he could unfix his gaze, and lift up his head to pour out his hundred thousand blessings, the stranger was gone. The bewildered peasant looked around in search of his benefactor, and at last he thought he saw him riding on a white horse a long way off on the lake.
“O’Donoghue, O’Donoghue,” shouted Bill; “the good, the blessed O’Donoghue!” and he ran capering like a madman to show Judy the gold, and to rejoice her heart with the prospect of wealth and happiness.
The next day Bill proceeded to the agent’s; not sneakingly, with his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his knees bending under him; but bold and upright, like a man conscious of his independence.
“Why don’t you take off your hat, fellow? don’t you know you are speaking to a magistrate?” said the agent.
“I know I’m not speaking to the king, sir,” said Bill; “and I never takes off my hat but to them I can respect and love. The Eye that sees all knows I’ve no right either to respect or love an agent!”
“You scoundrel!” retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage at such an unusual and unexpected opposition, “I’ll teach you how to be insolent again; I have the power, remember.”
“To the cost of the country, I know you have,” said Bill, who still remained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the L
ord Kingsale himself.
“But, come,” said the magistrate; “have you got the money for me? This is rent day. If there’s one penny of it wanting, or the running gale that’s due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain another hour in possession.”
“There is your rent,” said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone and countenance; “you’d better count it, and give me a receipt in full for the running gale and all.”
The agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it was gold—real guineas! and not bits of dirty ragged small notes, that are only fit to light one’s pipe with. However willing the agent may have been to ruin, as he thought, the unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold, and handed the receipt to Bill, who strutted off with it as proud as a cat of her whiskers.
The agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited there. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose; the gold had become gingerbread cakes, just marked like guineas, with the king’s head; and Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in saying anything about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for his pains.
From that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered; and he often blesses the day that he met with O’Donoghue, the great prince that lives down under the lake of Killarney.
LOUGHLEAGH (LAKE OF HEALING)*
“Do you see that bit of a lake?” said my companion, turning his eyes towards the acclivity that overhung Loughleagh. “Troth, and as little as you think of it, and as ugly as it looks with its weeds and its flags, it is the most famous one in all Ireland. Young and ould, rich and poor, far and near, have come to that lake to get cured of all kinds of scurvy and sores. The Lord keep us our limbs whole and sound, for it’s a sorrowful thing not to have the use o’ them. ’Twas but last week we had a great grand Frenchman here; and, though he came upon crutches, faith he went home sound as a bell; and well he paid Billy Reily for curing him.”
“And, pray, how did Billy Reily cure him?”
“Oh, well enough. He took his long pole, dipped it down to the bottom of the lake, and brought up on the top of it as much plaster as would do for a thousand sores!”
“What kind of plaster?”
“What kind of plaster? why, black plaster to be sure; for isn’t the bottom of the lake filled with a kind of black mud which cures all the world?”
“Then it ought to be a famous lake indeed.”
“Famous, and so it is,” replied my companion, “but it isn’t for its cures neather that it is famous; for, sure, doesn’t all the world know there is a fine beautiful city at the bottom of it, where the good people live just like Christians? Troth, it is the truth I tell you; for Shemus-a-sneidh saw it all when he followed his dun cow that was stolen.”
“Who stole her?”
“I’ll tell you all about it: Shemus was a poor gossoon, who lived on the brow of the hill, in a cabin with his ould mother. They lived by hook and by crook, one way and another, in the best way they could. They had a bit of ground that gave ’em the preaty, and a little dun cow that gave ’em the drop o’ milk; and, considering how times go, they weren’t badly off, for Shemus was a handy gossoon to boot; and, while minden the cow, cut heath and made brooms, which his mother sould on a market day, and brought home the bit o’ tobaccy, the grain of salt, and other nicnackenes, which a poor body can’t well do widout. Once upon a time, however, Shemus went farther than usual up the mountain, looken for long heath, for towns-people don’t like to stoop, and so like long handles to their brooms. The little dun cow was a’most as cunning as a Christian sinner, and followed Shemus like a lap dog everywhere he’d go, so that she required little or no herden. On this day she found nice picken on a round spot as green as a leek; and, as poor Shemus was weary, as a body would be on a fine summer’s day, he lay down on the grass to rest himself, just as we’re resten ourselves on the cairn here. Begad, he hadn’t long lain there, sure enough, when, what should he see but whole loads of ganconers* dancing about the place. Some o’ them were hurlen, some kicking a football, and others leaping a kick-step-and-a-lep. They were so soople and so active that Shemus was highly delighted with the sport, and a little tanned skinned chap in a red cap pleased him better than any o’ them, bekase he used to tumble the other fellows like mushrooms. At one time he had kept the ball up for as good as half-an-hour, when Shemus cried out, ‘Well done, my hurler!’ The word wasn’t well out of his mouth when whap went the ball on his eye, and flash went the fire. Poor Shemus thought he was blind, and roared out, ‘Mille murdher!’† but the only thing he heard was a loud laugh. ‘Cross o’ Christ about us,’ says he to himself, ‘what is this for?’ and afther rubbing his eyes they came to a little, and he could see the sun and the sky, and by-and-by, he could see everything but his cow and the mischievous ganconers. They were gone to their rath or mote; but where was the little dun cow? He looked, and he looked, and he might have looked from that day to this, bekase she wasn’t to be found, and good reason why—the ganconers took her away with ’em.
“Shemus-a-sneidh, however, didn’t think so, but ran home to his mother.
“ ‘Where is the cow, Shemus?’ axed the ould woman.
“ ‘Och, musha, bad luck to her,’ said Shemus, ‘I donna where she is!’
“ ‘Is that an answer, you big blaggard, for the likes o’ you to give your poor ould mother?’ said she.
“ ‘Och, musha,’ said Shemus, ‘don’t kick up saich a bollhous about nothing. The ould cow is safe enough, I’ll be bail, some place or other, though I could find her if I put my eyes upon kippeens,* and, speaking of eyes, faith, I had very good luck o’ my side, or I had naver a one to look after her.’
“ ‘Why, what happened your eyes, agrah?’ axed the ould woman.
“ ‘Oh, didn’t the ganconers—the Lord save us from all hurt and harm!—drive their hurlen ball into them both! and sure I was stone blind for an hour.’
“ ‘And may be,’ said the mother, ‘the good people took our cow?’
“ ‘No, nor the devil a one of them,’ said Shemus, ‘for, by the powers, that same cow is as knowen as a lawyer, and wouldn’t be such a fool as to go with the ganconers while she could get such grass as I found for her to-day.’ ”
In this way, continued my informant, they talked about the cow all that night, and next mornen both o’ them set off to look for her. After searching every place, high and low, what should Shemus see sticking out of a bog hole but something very like the horns of his little beast!
“Oh, mother, mother,” said he, “I’ve found her!”
“Where, alanna?” axed the ould woman.
“In the bog hole, mother,” answered Shemus.
At this the poor ould creathure set up such a pullallue that she brought the seven parishes about her; and the neighbors soon pulled the cow out of the bog hole. You’d swear it was the same, and yet it wasn’t, as you shall hear by-and-by.
Shemus and his mother brought the dead beast home with them; and, after skinnen her, hung the meat up in the chimney. The loss of the drop o’ milk was a sorrowful thing, and though they had a good deal of meat, that couldn’t last always; besides, the whole parish faughed upon them for eating the flesh of a beast that died without bleeden. But the pretty thing was, they couldn’t eat the meat after all, for when it was boiled it was as tough as carrion, and as black as a turf. You might as well think of sinking your teeth in an oak plank as into a piece of it, and then you’d want to sit a great piece from the wall for fear of knocking your head against it when pulling it through your teeth. At last and at long run they were forced to throw it to the dogs, but the dogs wouldn’t smell to it, and so it was thrown into the ditch, where it rotted. This misfortune cost poor Shemus many a salt tear, for he was now obliged to work twice as hard as before, and be out cutten heath on the mountain late and early. One day he was passing by this cairn with a load of brooms on his back, when what s
hould he see but the little dun cow and two red-headed fellows herding her.
“That’s my mother’s cow,” said Shemus-a-sneidh.
“No, it is not,” said one of the chaps.
“But I say it is,” said Shemus, throwing the brooms on the ground, and seizing the cow by the horns. At that the red fellows drove her as fast as they could to this steep place, and with one leap she bounced over, with Shemus stuck fast to her horns. They made only one splash in the lough, when the waters closed over ’em, and they sunk to the bottom. Just as Shemus-a-sneidh thought that all was over with him, he found himself before a most elegant palace built with jewels, and all manner of fine stones. Though his eyes were dazzled with the splendor of the place, faith he had gomsh* enough not to let go his holt, but in spite of all they could do, he held his little cow by the horns. He was axed into the palace, but wouldn’t go.
The hubbub at last grew so great that the door flew open, and out walked a hundred ladies and gentlemen as fine as any in the land.
“What does this boy want?” axed one o’ them, who seemed to be the masther.
“I want my mother’s cow,” said Shemus.
“That’s not your mother’s cow,” said the gentleman.
“Bethershin!”† cried Shemus-a-sneidh; “don’t I know her as well as I know my right hand?”
“Where did you lose her?” axed the gentleman. And so Shemus up and tould him all about it: how he was on the mountain—how he saw the good people hurlen—how the ball was knocked in his eye, and his cow was lost.
“I believe you are right,” said the gentleman, pulling out his purse, “and here is the price of twenty cows for you.”
“No, no,” said Shemus, “you’ll not catch ould birds wid chaff. I’ll have my cow and nothen else.”
“You’re a funny fellow,” said the gentleman; “stop here and live in a palace.”
