BITS OF BLARNEY.
How many have heard of "Blarney," and how few know how and why thisappropriate term has originated! How could they, indeed, unless they hadmade a pilgrimage to the Castle, as I did, in order to man[oe]uvre TimCronin into a narration of its legends?--They may go to Blarney,whenever they please, but the _genius loci_ has vanished. Tim Cronin hasbeen gathered to his fathers. By no lingering or vulgar disease did heperish; he died----of a sudden.
Scarcely any part of Ireland has attained more celebrity than thefar-famed village of Blarney, in the county, and near the city of Cork.At Blarney may be seen the mysterious talisman, which has theextraordinary power of conferring remarkable gifts of persuasion on thelips which, with due reverence and proper faith in its virtues, invokethe hidden genii of The Stone, to yield them its inspiration. Theceremony is brief:--only a kiss on the flinty rock, and the kisser isinstantly endowed with the happy faculty of flattering the fair sex _adlibitum_, without their once suspecting that it can be flattery. On themasculine gender it is not less effective. Altogether, it enables thekisser, like History,
"To lie like truth, and still most truly lie."
Immortal poesie has already celebrated the locality of Blarney. Thefar-famed _chanson_, written by Richard Alfred Milliken,[1] and called"The Groves of Blarney," has been heard or read by every one:--in theselater days the polyglot edition, by him who has assumed the name ofFather Prout, is well known to the public. There is an interpolatedverse, which may be adopted (as it sometimes is) into the original_chanson_, on account of the earnestness with which it declares that
"The stone this is, whoever kisses, He never misses to grow eloquent: 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of Parliament."
Blarney Castle is surrounded by the Groves mentioned in the song. Itstands four miles to the northwest of "the beautiful city called Cork,"and, of course, in the fox-hunting district of Muskerry. All that cannow be seen are the remains of an antique castellated pile, to the eastof which was rather incongruously attached, a century ago, a largemansion of modern architecture.
[1] In Lockhart's Life of Scott, this renowned Song is attributed to "the poetical Dean of Cork" (Dr. Burrowes, who wrote "The Night before Larry was stretched"), but really was written by Milliken, a poetical lawyer of whom Maguire says (O'Doherty Papers, vol. ii., p. 181) that not even Christopher North himself--
"Be he tipsy or sober, Was not more than his match, in wine, wisdom, or wit."
The Castle stands on the north side of a precipitous ridge of limestonerock, rising from a deep valley, and its base is washed by a small andbeautifully clear river called the Aw-martin. A large, square, andmassive tower--a sort of Keep,--is all that remains of the originalfortress. The top of this building is surrounded with a parapet,breast-high, and on the very summit is the famous Stone which is said topossess the power, already mentioned, of conferring on every gentlemanwho _kisses_ it the peculiar property of telling any thing, in the wayof praise (commonly called flattery), with unblushing cheek and"forehead unabashed." As the fair sex have to receive, rather thanbestow compliments, the oscular homage to the Stone conveys no power to_them_. From the virtues which it communicates to the masculinepilgrims, we have the well-known term _blarney_ and _blarney-stone_.
The real Stone is in such a dangerous position, from its elevation, thatit is rarely kissed, except by very adventurous pilgrims of the TomSheridan class, who will _do_ the thing, and not be content with sayingthey have done it! The stone which officiates as its deputy, is onewhich was loosened by a shot from the cannon of Oliver Cromwell'stroops, who were encamped on the hill behind the Castle. This stone issecured in its place by iron stanchions, and it is this that thevisitors kiss, as aforesaid, and by mistake. The Song, it may beremembered, speaks of the Cromwellian bombardment of the Castle:
"'Tis Lady Jeffreys that owns this station, Like Alexander, or like Helen, fair. There's no commander throughout the nation In emulation can with her compare: Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder Could ever plunder her place of strength, Till Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel, And made a breach in her battlement."
Between Blarney Castle and the hill whereon Cromwell's troops_bivouacked_, is a sweet vale called the Rock Close. This is a charmingspot, whereon (or legends lie) the little elves of fairy-land once lovedto assemble in midnight revelry. At one end of this vale is a lake ofunfathomable depth, and Superstition delights to relate stories of itswonders.
When Sir Walter Scott was in Ireland, he visited Blarney, accompanied byAnne Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Mr. Lockhart. A few days after he wasthere, it was my fortune to tread in his steps to the same classicshrine.
The barefooted and talkative guide who _would_ accompany me over theCastle, thus described "the Ariosto of the North," and hiscompanions:--"A tall, bulky man, who halted a great deal, came here,with his daughter and a very small lady, and a dash of a gentleman, witha bright keen eye that looked here, and there, and everywhere in aminute. They thrust themselves, ransacking, into every nook and crannythat a rat would not go through, scarcely. When the lame gentleman cameto the top of the Castle, wasn't he delighted, and didn't he take allthe country down upon paper with a pencil, while one of us sang 'TheGroves of Blarney.' He made us sing it again, and gave me a crown-piece,and said that he'd converse a poem on the Castle, himself, may-be!"
While I am thus gossiping, I am neglecting Tim Cronin, "the beststory-teller" (to use his own words) "within the whole length, andbreadth, and cubic mensuration of the Island."
After my visit to Blarney Castle, I met this worthy. I had struck fromthe common path into that which led through the Rock Close. This valleyis divided into several fields, all of which are extremely fertile,except that immediately washed by the waters of the lake. It was now farin the summer; and, although the mowers had to cut down the rich grassof the other fields, there was scarcely a blade upon this. It was assmooth, green, and close-shaven as the trim turf before a cottage_ornee_. While I was remarking this, I was startled by a sudden touchupon the shoulder, and, turning round, I found myself _vis-a-vis_ with aHerculean-built fellow, who doffed his hat, with a sort of rudecourtesy, made an attempt at a bow, and, before I could say 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 TimCronin--and that's myself--that can tell you all about it, before youhave 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 easyto 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, therenowned Philomath, that bothered the Provost of old Trinity inAlgebra--from the Saxon _al_, noble, and the Arabic _Geber_, thephilosopher? Never once heard, perhaps, of the great Cronin that doesall the problems and answers, for the Lady's Diary, in mathematics--fromthe Greek _mathema_, instruction? Nothing like getting at the roots ofwords--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 nameand erudition. I ventured to intimate, as a sort of half-apology, that Iwas 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 ingeniouscorrespondent,' as the Mathematical Journal calls me, when it refusesone of my articles, 'from want of space,'--bad luck to 'em, as if theycould not push out something else to make room for me. Curious, sir, notto have heard of me, that keeps one of the finest academies, under ahedge, in the Province of Munster! Just sit down on the bank here, andI'll soon enlighten you so, about that good-looking lake before your twoeyes, that I'll be bound you won't forget me in a
hurry."
Complying with the request of this august personage, I had thesatisfaction of listening to his legend, thus: