Bits of Blarney. Mackenzie Robert Shelton
a word, struck into conversation.
"Wondering at this meadow being so bare, I warrant you, sir?"
I confessed that it had surprised me.
"Didn't know the why nor the wherefore of it, may-be? It's Tim Cronin – and that's myself – that can tell you all about it, before you have time to get fat."
I ventured to exhibit my ignorance, by asking who Tim Cronin might be?
"Faith, sir, you may know a great deal of Latin and Greek – and 'tis easy to see that the College mark is upon you – but you know little of real literature in old Ireland, if you don't know me. Not know Cronin, the renowned Philomath, that bothered the Provost of old Trinity in Algebra – from the Saxon al, noble, and the Arabic Geber, the philosopher? Never once heard, perhaps, of the great Cronin that does all the problems and answers, for the Lady's Diary, in mathematics – from the Greek mathema, instruction? Nothing like getting at the roots of words – the unde derivatur?"
Even at the hazard of appearing as an ignoramus in the eyes of Mr. Cronin, I was fain to admit that I had not previously heard of his name and erudition. I ventured to intimate, as a sort of half-apology, that I was a stranger in that part of the country.
"Strange enough, I'll be bound," said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Know, then, that I am that same Tim Cronin, – 'our ingenious correspondent,' as the Mathematical Journal calls me, when it refuses one of my articles, 'from want of space,' – bad luck to 'em, as if they could not push out something else to make room for me. Curious, sir, not to have heard of me, that keeps one of the finest academies, under a hedge, in the Province of Munster! Just sit down on the bank here, and I'll soon enlighten you so, about that good-looking lake before your two eyes, that I'll be bound you won't forget me in a hurry."
Complying with the request of this august personage, I had the satisfaction of listening to his legend, thus:
LEGEND OF THE LAKE
Once upon a time, and there was no lake here, at all at all. In the middle of the place where that lake is, there stood a large castle, and in it dwelt an unbaptized giant – it was before blessed Saint Patrick came into the country, Heaven rest his soul – and this giant had martial rule over all the country, far and near.
In his time, the Aw-martin, nor any other river, did not flow near us. Indeed, though there was plenty of wine in the Castle, there was a great want of water. This was very inconvenient for the ladies – the fellow had as many wives as a Turk – because they were always wanting to wash their clothes, and their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their well-shaped bodies; and, more than that, they could not make themselves a raking cup of tea, by any means, for the want of good soft water. So, one and all, they sent a petition to the giant, praying that he would have the kindness to procure them a well of water. When he read it, he made no more ado but whipped off through the air – just like a bird of Paradise – to his old aunt, who was a fairy, and had foretold that, some day or other, water would be the death of him. Perhaps that was the reason that he always took his liquor neat.
Well, he told her what he had come about, and after a world of entreaty – for she had a foreboding that something unfortunate would come of it – the old fairy put a little bottle into his hands. "Take this," said she, "and drill a hole in the rock at the foot of the Castle barbican, where the sun throws his latest ray before he sinks into the west. Make a stone-cover for the top of it – one that will fit it exactly. Then pour the water from this bottle into that hole in the rock, and there will be a well of pure water, for the use of yourself and your family. But, when no one is actually taking water out of this well, be sure that the close-fitting stone-cover is always left upon it, for it is the nature of the liquid to overflow, unless it be kept confined."
He gave her a thousand thanks, and home he went. The first thing he did was to drill a hole in the rock (and he did not find that a very easy job), then to fit it with an air-tight stone-cover, and, lastly, to pour in the water out of the little bottle.
Sure enough, there immediately bubbled up an abundance of bright, clear, and sparkling water. The giant then assembled all his family, and told them how the stone-cover must always be kept over the well when they were not using it. And then his wives agreed that, as they had been so anxious to get this water, one of them, turn about, should sit by the well, day and night, and see that no one left it uncovered. They were content to submit to this trouble, rather than run the risk of losing the water.
Things went on very well for some time. At last, as must be the case when a woman is to the fore, there came a tremendous blow-up. One of the giant's ladies was a foreigner, and had been married, in her own country, before she fell into his hands. Mild and pale she always was, pretty creature! lamenting the land she had left and the lover she had lost. It happened, one day as she sat by the well, that an old pilgrim came to the gate, asked for a draught of water, in God's name, and held out his pitcher for it. Her thoughts were far away, never fear, but she had a tender heart, and she raised the cover from the well to fill his vessel. While she was doing this, the pilgrim pulled off his gown and his false beard, and who should he be but her own husband! She sprang off her seat towards him, and then, faint with joy and pale as death, she sank back into the oaken chair on which she had been sitting, as the guardian of the well. A bird never flew through the air faster than he flew towards her. He seated himself beside her in the chair, held her lovingly in his arms, kissed her cheeks and lips twenty times over, called her all manner of fond names, and sprinkled her with water until the fresh color came again into her face, and the warm life into her heart.
All this time the well was left uncovered, and the waters rose – rose – rose, until they surrounded the Castle. Higher and higher did they rise, until, at last, down fell the gates, and then the stream rushed in, drowning every living soul within the place, and settling down into the very lake that we sit by now.
The moral of the story is, that the lady and the pilgrim escaped – for the oaken chair supported them and floated them until they safely put their feet on dry land. All the rest perished, because they had willingly consented to live in sin with the giant; but this one lady had been kept there entirely against her will. The two thanked God for their escape, and returned to their own country, where they lived long and happily. It had been the giant's pride to put all his best jewels on whoever kept watch over the well, in order that all who passed might notice them and pay respect to his wealth. As this lady had them all upon her when the Castle was swallowed up, she and her husband had money enough, out of the sale of them, to keep them in a very genteel way of life at home. Some people say that, at times, the walls of the drowned Castle can be seen through the waters of the lake, – but I won't swear to the fact, as I never noticed it myself.
Such was Tim Cronin's account of the formation of the lake – a version more pleasant than probable. I ventured to inquire how the meadow next the waters came to be so bare, while all the others bore such luxuriant grass and grain? Mr. Cronin asked me, whether I saw a gray rock on the left, with three pines on its summit. I noticed them, as required. "Then," said he, "look well at the place all around, and I shall tell you another story or two about Blarney."
Thus admonished, I took a closer survey of the place. The rock rose with a gentle swell in the distance, but its front was so precipitous as to be nearly perpendicular; and it was thickly covered with ivy, tangled like network, with which were mingled wild honeysuckle, dog-rose, and other parasites. There was a sort of rugged entrance at its base, over which the wild-brier and honeysuckle had formed a natural arch. Except this, the rock had a commonplace aspect.
THE LEGEND OF CORRIG-NA-CAT
We call that rock by a strange name – from a strange circumstance, said Cronin. Upon the top, some hundreds of years ago, there stood a castle, belonging to the old Kings of Muskerry. Some cousin of theirs lived in it with his family, and was as happy as the day is long. How it happened, never could be ascertained; but happen it certainly did, that, one night, castle and people and all suddenly disappeared. I misdoubt that there were bad spirits at work. However, the general belief is, that the rock opened and swallowed all up, and that the lord and lady are kept there, spell-bound, as it were, in the shape of cats. From this, the rock is called Corrig-na-cat,