Bits of Blarney

Bits of Blarney
Robert Mackenzie

R. Shelton Mackenzie

Bits of Blarney

TO J. S. REDFIELD, ESQ

My Dear Sir: – The deified heroes of the Norse mythology are believed to spend their afternoons in drinking something stronger than lemonade out of their enemies' skulls, and some ill-natured persons, seizing on the idea, have declared that publishers use the skulls of their authors as drinking-cups, in the same manner. For my own part, I discredit the assertion – as far as my relations with yourself enable me to judge; I suspect that the time has gone by when Napoleon's health was drank as "a friend of literature," because he had shot a bookseller; and I give you unlimited permission to use my skull, in the Norse fashion, provided that you wait until "in death I shall calm recline," when I shall have no further occasion for it. In such case, the least you can do will be to drink my memory, "in solemn silence" – the beverage being whiskey-punch, as a delicate compliment to my country.

Seriously speaking (or writing), however, I take leave to dedicate this volume to you, with the solemn assurance that my doing so must not be taken as – a Bit of Blarney.

The book is Irish – to all intents and purposes, and is put forth with the least possible pretence. It contains Legends – familiar to me in my youth; Stories, which, more or less, are literally "founded upon facts;" recollections of Eccentric Characters, whose peculiarities it would have been difficult to exaggerate; – and Sketches of the two great Irish leaders of the last and present century, Grattan, who won National Independence for Ireland, and O'Connell, who obtained Emancipation for the great majority of his countrymen. The Sketch of the great Agitator has extended almost to a biography – but I knew the man well, and write of him on that knowledge. In this volume he is certainly entitled to a niche, having been the greatest professor of "Blarney" these later days have seen or heard.

Yours faithfully,

    R. Shelton Mackenzie

New York, August 20, 1855.

LEGENDS

BITS OF BLARNEY

How many have heard of "Blarney," and how few know how and why this appropriate term has originated! How could they, indeed, unless they had made a pilgrimage to the Castle, as I did, in order to manœuvre Tim Cronin into a narration of its legends? – They may go to Blarney, whenever they please, but the genius loci has vanished. Tim Cronin has been gathered to his fathers. By no lingering or vulgar disease did he perish; he died – of a sudden.

Scarcely any part of Ireland has attained more celebrity than the far-famed village of Blarney, in the county, and near the city of Cork. At Blarney may be seen the mysterious talisman, which has the extraordinary power of conferring remarkable gifts of persuasion on the lips which, with due reverence and proper faith in its virtues, invoke the hidden genii of The Stone, to yield them its inspiration. The ceremony is brief: – only a kiss on the flinty rock, and the kisser is instantly endowed with the happy faculty of flattering the fair sex ad libitum, without their once suspecting that it can be flattery. On the masculine gender it is not less effective. Altogether, it enables the kisser, like History,

"To lie like truth, and still most truly lie."

Immortal poesie has already celebrated the locality of Blarney. The far-famed chanson, written by Richard Alfred Milliken,[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 —] and called "The Groves of Blarney," has been heard or read by every one: – in these later days the polyglot edition, by him who has assumed the name of Father Prout, is well known to the public. There is an interpolated verse, 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. It stands four miles to the northwest of "the beautiful city called Cork," and, of course, in the fox-hunting district of Muskerry. All that can now be seen are the remains of an antique castellated pile, to the east of which was rather incongruously attached, a century ago, a large mansion of modern architecture.

The Castle stands on the north side of a precipitous ridge of limestone rock, rising from a deep valley, and its base is washed by a small and beautifully clear river called the Aw-martin. A large, square, and massive tower – a sort of Keep, – is all that remains of the original fortress. The top of this building is surrounded with a parapet, breast-high, and on the very summit is the famous Stone which is said to possess the power, already mentioned, of conferring on every gentleman who kisses it the peculiar property of telling any thing, in the way of praise (commonly called flattery), with unblushing cheek and "forehead unabashed." As the fair sex have to receive, rather than bestow compliments, the oscular homage to the Stone conveys no power to them. From the virtues which it communicates to the masculine pilgrims, we have the well-known term blarney and blarney-stone.

The real Stone is in such a dangerous position, from its elevation, that it is rarely kissed, except by very adventurous pilgrims of the Tom Sheridan class, who will do the thing, and not be content with saying they have done it! The stone which officiates as its deputy, is one which was loosened by a shot from the cannon of Oliver Cromwell's troops, who were encamped on the hill behind the Castle. This stone is secured in its place by iron stanchions, and it is this that the visitors kiss, as aforesaid, and by mistake. The Song, it may be remembered, 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 charming spot, whereon (or legends lie) the little elves of fairy-land once loved to assemble in midnight revelry. At one end of this vale is a lake of unfathomable depth, and Superstition delights to relate stories of its wonders.

When Sir Walter Scott was in Ireland, he visited Blarney, accompanied by Anne Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Mr. Lockhart. A few days after he was there, it was my fortune to tread in his steps to the same classic shrine.

The barefooted and talkative guide who would accompany me over the Castle, thus described "the Ariosto of the North," and his companions: – "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, with a bright keen eye that looked here, and there, and everywhere in a minute. They thrust themselves, ransacking, into every nook and cranny that a rat would not go through, scarcely. When the lame gentleman came to the top of the Castle, wasn't he delighted, and didn't he take all the country down upon paper with a pencil, while one of us sang 'The Groves 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 best story-teller" (to use his own words) "within the whole length, and breadth, and cubic mensuration of the Island."

After my visit to Blarney Castle, I met this worthy. I had struck from the common path into that which led through the Rock Close. This valley is divided into several fields, all of which are extremely fertile, except that immediately washed by the waters of the lake. It was now far in the summer; and, although the mowers had to cut down the rich grass of the other fields, there was scarcely a blade upon this. It was as smooth, green, and close-shaven as the trim turf before a cottage ornée. While I was remarking this, I was startled by a sudden touch upon the shoulder, and, turning round, I found myself vis-à-vis with a Herculean-built fellow, who doffed his hat, with a sort of rude courtesy, 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 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.