Bits of Blarney

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, or the Cat Rock. 'Tis a mighty pretty derivation.

Whether the castle were swallowed up in that manner, or not, strange sights have been seen, by the light of the full moon, about that place. There is a little green spot on the brow of the hill, where there is a fairy-circle; on that spot sweet music has been heard by night, and the good people (as well as the fairies) have been seen dancing on the green turf, dressed in green and gold, with beautiful crowns upon their heads, and white wands in their little hands. Ah, sir, you may smile, but that's the belief in this part of the country, and he'd be looked upon as no better than a heathen who'd venture to say a word against it.

My grandfather, although a trifle given to drink, was as honest a man as ever broke bread. One summer night, while he lay in bed, between asleep and awake, he heard a strange deep voice speak to him. It said, " The words of fate! heed them. Go, at midnight, to Corrig-na-cat; take with you a box of candles and a hundred fathoms of line; fasten one end of the line to the tree that grows just outside the mouth of the cave, and, tying the other end round your waist, boldly advance with a pair of lighted candles in your hands: the use of the line is, that you may roll it up as you come back, and not lose your way. Keep to the right-hand side, and go on until you come to a large room with two cats in it. In the room beyond that, there is as much gold as would buy a kingdom. You may take with you a bag to carry away as much of it as you please; but, on your peril, do not touch anything else; your life will not be worth a brass sixpence, if you do."

You may be sure, sir, that this piece of information astonished my grandfather. But he was a sensible man, and, doubting whether two heads would be better than one in such a serious matter, nudged my grandmother with his elbow, to know if she was awake. She slept – sound as a top; so he let her sleep on. He was rather too knowing to let her into the secret. He thought over all that he had ever heard of Corrig-na-cat; he called to mind how his mother had always said that our family were the real descendants of the lord and lady of the castle. He began to fancy that this was some great oracle that had come to visit him, in order that he might break the spell that kept the castle and its inhabitants closed up in the rock. Indeed, he was very much perplexed, but determined to wait a bit, and carefully keep his own counsel.

A warning from the world of spirits is worth nothing, if it is not repeated. The next night, my grandfather again was cautioned to listen to the words of fate. The third night the visitation was repeated. He knew, then, that the thing was no feint; and on the fourth night, he stole out of the house to go on the adventure.

It was as pitch dark as if light had never been invented. He took the hundred fathoms of line, the box of candles, a sack to bring home a supply of gold, and a good-sized flask of strong whiskey. When he reached the rock, his heart began to fail him. The night was so still that he could hear the beating of his heart – thump, thump, thump, against his breast. He could hear the bats flying about, and he could see the owls looking on him with their great, round, brown eyes. Swallowing most of the contents of the flask at one pull, he found his spirits wonderfully restored, and he pushed forward to the mouth of the cave. He fastened one end of the line to the tree; he said an Ave or two – for we are all of us a pious family – he drained the flask, and then he dashed forward.

The way was as straight as an arrow for about thirty yards, but, after that, it took as many turnings and twistings as a problem of Euclid in the sixth book, and branched out into many directions. My grandfather followed on the right-hand side, as he had been told, and soon found himself at the gateway of an old hall. He pushed open the door, and saw that there were doors upon doors, leading off to many a place. He still kept to the right, and in a few minutes found himself in a state-chamber. Pillars of white marble supported the roof, and, at the farthest end, the hall opened into an apartment, through which there beamed a soft and beautiful light, as if it came from a thousand shaded lamps.

Here was the end of his journey. A carved mantel-piece of white marble was over the fireplace, and there lay two beautiful white cats, on crimson-velvet cushions, before the fire. Diamonds and rubies, emeralds and amethysts, pearls and topazes, were piled on the ground in heaps, and ceiling and walls were covered all over with them, so that rays of light gleamed down upon him, wherever he looked.

There was no living thing in the room with my grandfather but the cats. The creatures had golden collars, embossed with diamonds, round their necks; and to these were fastened long gold chains, which just gave them liberty to move round the room, being fastened to the walls, one at each side, by golden staples. He noticed that the animals steadily kept their eyes upon him, and appeared to watch every motion of his.

My grandfather passed on into the inner room. The gold lay on the floor like wheat in a miller's store. He filled his sack with the coin to the brim, until, though he was said to be the strongest man in the whole barony, he had some difficulty in lifting it. As he passed through the room in which the cats were, he paused for a moment, to have a parting glance at all the treasures he was leaving. There was one golden star, studded with diamonds as big as walnuts, and blazing like a lamp, hanging down before him from the ceiling. It was too tempting. He forgot the advice not to touch anything but the gold in the inner room, and reached out his hand to seize the sparkling prize. One of the cats, who had eagerly watched his motions, sprang forward as he touched the jewel, and quick as a lightning-stroke, hit out his right eye with a sharp dash of his paw. At the same moment, an invisible hand whipped off the sack of gold from his shoulders, as if it were only a bag of feathers. Out went all the lights. My grandfather groped his way out as well as he could, by the help of the guiding-line fastened to his wrist, and cursed his greediness, that would not be content with enough. He got home by daybreak, with only one eye in his head, and that, without meaning to joke on his misfortune, was the left one.

Next day he sent for the priest, and told him what had happened. My grandmother said that all the misfortune was owing to her not being in the secret. The priest said nothing. Before long, all the country heard of the story, and half the country believed it. To be sure, as my grandfather was rather addicted to liquor (and there was a private still, in those days, in almost every corner), it was a chance that he might have dreamt all this: – but then, there was his right eye absent. There were some malicious people, indeed, who hinted that he fell over the cliff, in a drunken fit, and that his eye was scratched out in that manner. But it would ill beseem me to make a story-teller of my dead-and-gone grandfather, and so I maintain the truth of his own statement. If it is not true, it deserves to be.

In this conclusion I fully agreed, and the Philomath, proud of the display of his legendary lore, and happy on having fallen in with a patient and willing auditor, next proceeded to acquaint me with the accredited legend of the meadow next the lake. As before, I shall endeavor, in repeating it, to adhere to the very words of my informant.

LEGEND OF THE ROCK CLOSE

About a thousand years ago, or so – but, of course, after this lake was formed, to fulfil the old fairy's prophecy, that the giant would come to his death by water – there was a man who owned all the fields in the Rock Close. He was a farmer – a plain, honest man. Not long after he had purchased the place, he noticed that, though this very field we are now sitting in had the same cultivation as the others, it never gave him any return. He had no idea of having a meadow look like a lawn in front of a gentleman's country-house, and lost no time in speaking about it to his herdsman, a knowledgeable man, who said it might be worth while to watch the place, for, although he often saw the blades of grass a foot high at night, all was as closely shaved as a bowling-green in the morning. His master, who was one of the old stock of the Mac Carthies, thought there was reason in what he said, and desired him to be on the watch, and try to find out the real facts of the matter.

The herdsman did his bidding. The next morning he told Mac Carthy that he had hid himself behind an old gateway (you may see the ruins of it there to the left), – that, about midnight, he had seen the waters of the lake very much disturbed, – that six cows came up out of the lake, and set to, eating all the grass off the field, until, by daybreak, they had made it as smooth as the palm of my hand, – and that, when the day dawned, the cows walked back into the lake, and went down to the bottom, as much at their ease as if they were on dry land.

This was strange news for Mac Carthy, and set him quite at his wits' ends. The herdsman was a little man, with the heart of a lion, and he offered to watch again on that evening, to seize one of the cows, and either put it into the pound, or go down into the lake with it, and make a regular complaint of the trespass. Aye, and he did it, too. At dusk he went again, hid himself, as before, and waited to see what would happen.

The six cows came up out of the lake, as before, and nibbled off the grass, until the field was quite smooth. They could not get into any other field, because they were surrounded by high, quickset hedges, and I have noticed that cows are not very fond of taking flying-leaps.

Just at dawn, as the last cow was passing by him, on her return to the lake, the herdsman made a dart at her tail, and took a fast hold of it. The cow walked on, as if nothing had happened, turned her head, winked one of her large eyes at him in a knowing manner, and the herdsman followed, still holding the tail.

Down dashed the beast into the waters – but the herdsman still kept his grasp. Down they went – deep, deep, to the very bottom of the lake. Sure enough, there was the giant's castle, that had been drowned centuries before. A little boy was in the court-yard, playing with a golden ball. All round the yard were piles of armor – spears and helmets, swords and shields, – all ornamented with gold. Into the court-yard dashed the cows, and with them went the bold herdsman.

Out came a lady, richly dressed up in velvets and jewels, and her eyes as bright as the sunbeams that dance on the wall on the morning of Easter Sunday.[2 - There is a popular belief in Ireland that the sunbeams dance on the wall on Easter Sunday morning. In my youth I have often got up at early dawn to witness the phenomenon.] She carried a golden milk-pail in her hand. Loud and shrill was her cry when she saw the herdsman.

I should have told you that, as they were going down, the cow whispered to him, "I want to speak a word with you, in confidence." – "Honor bright," said the herdsman. – "I think," said the cow, "that I'd like to graze on that meadow of your master's, by day as well as by night, for the grass is mighty sweet, and I don't think it agrees with my digestion to be driven up and down the lake as I am. If I will you go bail that the master will never put me into any other field but that?" – The herdsman answered, "I'll promise you, by the holy poker, and that is as good as if I was to swear by the blessed mud." – "Then my mind is at ease," says the cow. "For the life of you, don't let go my tail, whatever you may hear and see."

When the young lady shrieked with surprise at seeing a herdsman in that place, out rushed a whole regiment of soldiers, with their cheeks as red as the kitchen-fire five minutes before the dinner is done, and the looks of them as fierce as if they were in the heat of battle – a little fiercer, may-be. – "Oh, that villain!" says the lady, pointing to the herdsman. – "Come here, and be killed," shouted the dragoons. But the herdsman knew better. "Send your master to me," says he, as bold as brass. "I always like to do business with principals."

They wondered, as well they might, at the fellow's impudence, but they thought it best to call out their master. He came, with a golden crown upon his head, and a purple velvet cloak on his shoulders, and a beautiful pair of Hessian boots on his feet. – "I demand justice," said the herdsman, "for the trespass that your cows have been committing on Mac Carthy's field; and I seize this cow until the damage be ascertained and made good."

He was firm as a rock, and neither coaxing nor threatening could make him yield as much as a pin's point. He stood upon his right, and they could not get him off it. The cow had been seized in the very act of trespass, and all they dared do was to tempt the herdsman to surrender her. He knew better. At last the master of them said, "We must compromise this little matter. Leave the cow here, make out your bill for damage, and if I don't pay it to you either in sterling money, or notes of Delacour's bank at Mallow, or Joe Pike's in Cork, you can have your remedy at law, and summon me, on a process, before the Assistant Barrister and the bench of Magistrates at the next Quarter Sessions." – But the herdsman knew better than that, and said he'd prefer leaving matters as they were. "A cow in the hand" – says he. Then the master of them said, "Take that golden ball that the child has, and leave us the cow." – "Hand it over to me," says the herdsman. – "Come for it," said they, in the hope that he'd leave the cow. – "I've a touch of the rheumatism in my knee," says he, "and 'tis ill-convenient to move the limb." – With that, they handed him the ball, and, as soon as he saw that it really was gold, he put it into his breeches pocket, and said it was not half enough.

Then they began to whisper among themselves, and he could hear them proposing to get out a bloodhound – one of the breed that the Spaniards had to hunt down the Indians in America – and he thought it full time to make himself scarce. So, he whispered to the cow: – "My little cow," said he, "I'd like to go home." The cow took the hint, like a sensible animal as she was, and stole backward through half the lake before they missed her. "If we get safely back on dry land," says she, "neither you nor any one else must swear in my presence, for the spell is upon me, and then I shall be obliged to return to the lake."

Just then the hound was slipped, and he cut through the water like a dolphin. But the cow had the start of him, by a good bit. Just as she set her foot on land, the dog caught hold of the herdsman, and his bite tore away part of the skirt of his coat. Indeed, it was noticed for some days that the herdsman declined sitting down, just as if he had been newly made a Freemason, so I won't say that the dog did not bite more than the garment.

Mac Carthy had been cooling his heels on the bank of the lake all the while that the herdsman was away, and glad enough he was to see him come back, in company with the little cow. The herdsman told him all that happened, and handed him the golden ball, which, people say, is in the Jeffreys' family to this day. The hound runs round the lake, from midnight to sunrise, on every first of July, and is to run, on that day, until his silver shoes are worn out, – whenever that happens, Ireland is to be a great nation, but not until then.

The field was not visited any more by the cattle from the lake, for their master, below there, thought that though gratis grazing was pleasant enough, it was not quite so pleasant to have the cows impounded for trespass. From that time, never another field in all Munster gave such produce; sow it, or sow it not, there was always a barn-full of grain out of it. About half an acre of it was kept under grass, and on that the cow from the lake had constant feeding.

In due season, the cow had young ones – the same breed that we now call Kerry cows – those cattle, small in size, but good in substance, that feed upon very little, yield a great deal of milk, and always fetch the best of prices.

Mac Carthy was in a fair way of making a little fortune out of that cow of his, she gave such a power of milk, but that, one day as a nag of his was leaping over a hedge into the pasturage where the cow was, Mac Carthy burst out with a rattling oath. The moment the words left his lips, the cow cocked her ears, winked her eye knowingly at him, gave her tail a toss in the air, and made one spring down into the lake. The waters closed over her, and that was the last that mortal eye ever saw of her.

From that time forth the field was again visited by the cattle from the lake, and that's the reason why it is as smooth as you see it now. It is supposed that so it will continue until somebody has the bold heart to go down again and make another seizure for trespass.

Mr. Jeffreys, hearing a great deal of the treasures which are said to be at the bottom of the lake, laid out a power of money in trying to drain it. But it filled faster than the men could empty it. They might as well think of emptying the Atlantic with a slop-basin.

Having thanked Mr. Tim Cronin, Philomath, for his legends, I took the liberty of asking if he believed them? "Well," said he, "that same question is a poser. If I am pressed on the point, I must admit that I do not believe them entirely; but, when I meet curious gentlemen, I am proud to tell them these stories – particularly when they invite me to spend the afternoon with them at the little inn at the foot of the hill beyond there."

The hint was taken – as far as enabling him, as he said, to partake of his own hospitality, for my own time was limited, as I had to return to dine in Cork. Thus, I was unable to judge whether Mr. Cronin was as conversable after feeding-time as before it. He died some two years ago, I have been told, and it will be difficult to meet with a Cicerone so well qualified to describe and illustrate Blarney Castle and its dependencies.

CON O'KEEFE AND THE GOLDEN CUP

In Ireland, as in Scotland, among the lower orders, there is a prevalent belief in the existence and supernatural powers of the gentry commonly called "fairies." Many and strange are the stories told of this mysterious and much dreaded race of beings. Loud and frequent have been the exclamations of surprise, and even of anger, at the hard incredulity which made me refuse, when I was young, to credit all that was narrated of the wonderful feats of Irish fairies – the most frolicksome of the entire genus. The more my disbelief was manifested, the more wonderful were the legends which were launched at me, to overthrow my unlucky and matter-of-fact obstinacy.

I have forgotten many of the traditions which were thus made familiar to me in my boyhood, but my memory retains sufficient to convince me to what improbabilities Superstition clung – and the more wonderful the story, the more implicit the belief. But in such cases the fanaticism was harmless, – it was of the head rather than of the heart – of the imagination rather than the reason. It would be fortunate if all superstitions did as little mischief as this.

It is deeply to be lamented that the matter-of-factedness of the Americans is not subdued or modified by any – even the slightest – belief in the old-world superstitions of which I speak. Of fairy-lore they cannot, and they do not, possess the slightest item. They read of it, as if it were legendary, but nothing more. They feel it not – they know it – they are, therefore, dreadfully actual. So much the worse for them!

Having imbibed a sovereign contempt for the wild and wonderful traditions which had been duly accredited in the neighborhood, time out of mind, I never was particularly chary in expressing such contempt at every opportunity. When the mind of a boy soars above the ignorance which besets his elders in an inferior station, who have had neither the chance nor the desire of being enlightened, he is apt to pride himself, as I did, on the "march of intellect" which has placed him superior to their vulgar credulity.

Many years have passed since I happened to be a temporary visitor beneath the hospitable roof of one of the better sort of farmers, in the county of Cork, during the Midsummer holidays. As usual, I there indulged in sarcasm against the credulity of the country. One evening, in particular, I was not a little tenacious in laughing at the very existence of "the fairy folk;" and, as sometimes happens, ridicule accomplished more than argument could have effected. My hosts could bear anything in the way of argument – at least of argument such as mine – they could even suffer their favorite legends and theories about the fairies to be abused; but to laugh at them – that was an act of unkindness which quite passed their comprehension, and grievously taxed their patience.

My host was quite in despair, and almost in anger at my boyish jokes upon his fairy-legends, when the village schoolmaster came in, an uninvited but most welcome guest. A chair was soon provided for him in the warmest corner – whiskey was immediately on the table, and the schoolmaster, who was a pretty constant votary to Bacchus, lost no time in making himself acquainted with its flavor.

I had often seen him before. He combined in his character a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity; was a most excellent mathematician and a good classical scholar – but of the world he knew next to nothing. From youth to age had been spent within the limits of the parish over which, cane in hand, he had presided for more than a quarter of a century, – at once a teacher and an oracle! He was deeply imbued with a belief in the superstitions of the district, but was more especially familiar with the wild legends of that rocky glen (the defile near Kilworth, commonly called Araglin, once famous for the extent of illicit distillation carried on there), in which he had passed away his life, usefully, but humbly employed.

To this eccentric character my host triumphantly appealed for proof respecting the existence and vagaries of the fairies. He wasted no time in argument, but, glancing triumphantly around, declared that he would convert me by a particularly well-attested story. Draining his tumbler, and incontinently mixing another, Mr. Patrick McCann plunged at once into the heart of his narration, as follows:

"You know the high hill that overlooks the town of Fermoy? Handsome and thriving place as it now is, I remember the time when there were only two houses in that same town, and one of them was then only in course of building! Well, there lived on the other side of Corran Thierna (the mountain in question, though Corrig is the true name) one of the Barrys, a gentleman who was both rich and good. I wish we had more of the stamp among us now – 'tis little of the Whiteboys or Ribbonmen would trouble the country then. He had a fine fortune, kept up a fine house, and lived at a dashing rate. It does not matter, here nor there, how many servants he had; but I mention them, because one of them was a very remarkable fellow. His equal was not to be had, far or near, for love nor money.

"This servant was called Con O'Keefe. He was a crabbed little man, with a face the very color and texture of old parchment, and he had lived in the family time out of mind. He was such a small, dwarfish, deeny creature, that no one ever thought of putting him to hard work. All that they did was, now and again, from the want of a better messenger at the moment, or to humor the old man, to send him to Rathcormac post-office for letters. But he was too weak and feeble to walk so far – though it was only a matter of three or four miles; so they got him a little ass, and he rode upon it, quite as proud as a general at the head of an army of conquerors. 'Twas as good as a play to see Con mounted upon his donkey – you could scarcely make out which had the most stupid look. But neither man nor beast can help his looks.

"At that time Rathcormac, though 'tis but a village now, was a borough, and sent two members to the Irish Parliament. Was not the great Curran, the orator and patriot, member for Rathcormac, when he was a young man? Did not Colonel Tonson get made an Irish peer, out of this very borough, which his son William is, to this very day, by the title of Baron Riversdale of Rathcormac? Does not his shield bear an open hand between two castles, and is not the motto, 'Manus hæc inimica tyrannis' – which means that it was the enemy of tyrants? Did not the Ulster King of Arms make the Tonsons a grant of these arms, in the time of Cromwell? But here I have left poor little Con mounted on his donkey all this time.

"Con O'Keefe was not worth his keep, for any good he did; but, truth to say, he had the name of being hand and glove with the fairies; and, at that time, Corran Thierna swarmed with them. They changed their quarters when the regiments from Fermoy barracks took to firing against targets stuck up at the foot of the mountain. Not that a ball could ever hit a fairy (except a silver one cast by a girl in her teens, who has never wished for a lover, or a widow under forty who has not sighed for a second husband – so there's little chance that it ever will be cast), but they hate the noise of the firing and the smell of gunpowder, quite as much as the Devil hates holy water.

"'Tis reckoned lucky in these parts to have a friend of the fairies in the house with you, and that was partly the reason why Con O'Keefe was kept at Barry's-fort. Many and many a one could swear to hearing him and 'the good folk' talk together at twilight on his return from Rathcormac with the letter-bag. My own notion is, that if he had anything to say to them, he had more sense than to hold conversation with them on the high road, for that might have led to a general discovery. Con was fond of a drop, and, when he took it (which was in an algebraic way, that is, 'any given quantity'), he had such famous spirits, and his tongue went so glibly, that, in the absence of other company, he was sometimes forced to talk to himself, as he trotted home.

"One night, as he was going along, rather the worse for liquor, he thought he heard a confused sound of voices in the air, directly over his head. He stopped, and, sure enough, it was the fairies, who were chattering away, like a bevy of magpies; but he did not know this at the time.