Part 16

Just a pleasant drive from Cork is Blarney Castle--a noble ruin, towering above a beautiful little lake, all surrounded by delightful, though neglected grounds--made famous by an old comic song, called "The Groves of Blarney."

This stronghold was built in the fifteenth century, by the great chief, Cormac MacCarty, and retained by his descendants, the lords of Clancarty and Musterry, until 1689, when it was confiscated. It has since belonged to a family of Jeffries. The sad work of decay and demolition has been going on for several centuries, and yet some of the walls look as though they would stand centuries longer.

The chief object of curiosity here is the famous "Blarney Stone," about which there is a foolish tradition that whoever kisses it shall be gifted with such shrewdness and eloquence that nobody will be able to resist his persuasions. From this comes the expression of "blarney" for cunning and flattering talk. I did not perceive that the people in this neighborhood had any more of this peculiar gift than those of other provinces;--indeed, I should suppose that there was a Blarney stone in every town in Ireland, and that no Irishman, woman, or child had failed to kiss it.

This stone is now on the inside of the highest battlement of the great tower. It was formerly on the outside, some feet from the top, and those who wished to kiss it, were obliged to be let down by their heels--which being a rather disagreeable and dangerous process, Mr. Jeffries had it removed to its present place. Some learned men say that this is nothing but a spurious stone, after all; and that the real magical stone is yet imbedded in the outer wall, about twenty feet from the top, and bears the name of the great MacCarty. Perhaps it is so--but I don't believe it.

In the grounds about the Castle, or "The Groves," there is many a sweet, dewy, flowery spot, where the grass, moss, and ivy, are green as green can be, and no sound is heard in the deep shade but the gurgle of water and the warble of birds. Here are some rude steps made in the rock, called "The Witches' Staircase," and a cave, in which it was said a fair Princess remained enchanted for many years. Legends say that the last Earl of Clancarty sunk all his valuable plate in the lake, where it will remain until one of the old race regains possession of the estate. Our guide told us that Lady Jeffries tried to drain the lake, but that though she made a deep opening in the bank, not a drop would run out--"for fear of exposing the plate of the rale lord!" He said, too, that enchanted cows in the MacCarty interest came often at night, and drove the Jeffries cows out of their pastures; and that no earthly cattle had any chance at all against them--for they were furious animals, with "mighty sharp horns." Of course, all this is very absurd, and not half so pretty as the legends we heard everywhere in Ireland of the fairies, or "good people." I will tell you more of these another time. Now I have only room for a little anecdote of the last Lord Clancarty, which I find set down as a great lesson to people to read their Bibles.

When this unfortunate nobleman was going into exile, he told his relative, the beautiful Duchess of Marlborough, that he was certain he could recover his property, if he only had money enough to carry on a lawsuit for it. She did not offer to help him, but she placed in his hands a Bible, saying that he would find in it comfort and support in all his troubles. The young lord thanked her with such a pious face that one would have thought he meant to do little else than study the good book for the next six months. But the rogue never once looked into it, and when, long after, he returned to England, the Duchess asked him for it, and opening it before his eyes, showed him that she had placed between the leaves, bank notes enough to have recovered his estates, now hopelessly lost.

I must say that this account of Lord Clancarty's poverty, and that of his treasure hid in Blarney Lake, do not hang together very well; but, as the Bible story has the best moral, perhaps we had better hold on to that, and let the other go, with the legends of enchanted cows and princesses.

LITTLE NORAH AND THE BLARNEY STONE.

One pleasant summer morning, in 18--, a gay party of English ladies and gentlemen visited the old Castle of Blarney. They strolled along the green shore of the lake, wandered about the wild neglected gardens and "groves," ran up and down the Witches' Staircase, poked their heads into the princesses cave, and then ascended the great tower of the castle. This party was headed by a gentleman of middle age, tall and stately, but very kindly and pleasant in his looks. He wore a military uniform, but was addressed as "my lord." He held by the hand, that is, whenever he could catch her, a smiling rosy, dimple-cheeked little girl, whom he called "Fanny," and the rest of the party "Lady Frances." It was a pretty sight to see her break away from them all, and flit about the ruins and through the dark tangled alleys of the groves, like a bird on the wing. She laughingly skipped up and down the Witches' Staircase with the rest, but she lingered longest in the haunted cave, looking about her wistfully, as though she expected to see the enchanted princess; and once her father found her peering into a dark green dell, and listening attentively, her dark eyes growing big with expectant awe.

"Why, daughter Fanny, what have you there?" he asked. "What wonderful discovery are you making?"

"Hush, father!" she replied, with her small taper finger on her lip, "it's the fairies I'm after--the 'good people,' nurse Bridget has told me so much about. I am sure there must be some of them in this still, shady place. I've found their 'rings' in the fresh, green grass."

Lord Clare at first smiled at this simple, childish faith, then grew serious, and sitting down on a flowery bank, drew his little daughter on to his knee, and explained to her how the story of fairies was, in the beginning, only a fable of poets and romance-writers, and was now only believed in by ignorant peasants, like her Irish nurse; that, in truth, there were no such beings as the fairies in all the world. When he had finished, he was surprised to see that the child had covered her face with her hands, and that the tears were fast trickling through her fingers. "What is my little daughter weeping for?" he asked.

"For the fairies, papa; the dear, beautiful fairies. I can't believe in them any more."

"But was it not right for papa to tell you the truth, my darling, even though it gave you pain?"

"Yes, I suppose it was. But, oh, papa, somehow things don't look so beautiful as they did when I believed in the 'good people.' Then every bank of moss, or bit of green turf, I thought might be a fairy ball-room. Whenever I saw a flower, or a leaf floating on the water, I thought some fairy might be sailing on it. I was almost sure full-blown roses were the thrones of fairy queens, and buds just opening they were the little baby-fairies' cradles. Oh, it was so beautiful! and then, the kindness and goodness of the wee things, papa; that is, when you did not happen to offend them. They were always helping people out of trouble, especially poor persecuted princes and princesses, and they were such fast friends of good children--at least, so nurse and the fairy books said, and I used to believe so;--now it's all over."

"But, my daughter," said Lord Clare, "we can be better than fairies to one another, if we will; and then, remember, that we have God's good angels to watch over and help us, when they can."

"Yes," said Fanny, brightening up a little, "that is some comfort."

It was soon after this conversation that the party ascended the old crumbly stone steps of the great tower of the castle. After enjoying the fine prospect from the summit for some time, Lord Clare inquired for the famous Blarney Stone.

Rooney, the guide, a shrewd, smooth-tongued fellow, leaned over the ruined parapet, and pointing to a stone, several feet below, replied, "There it is, yer honor, the rale meraculous ould stone. Sure if your lordship would so demane yourself as to kiss it, to-day, you would never have any trouble in governing Irishmen at all. You would have only to spake, and the spirit of fight and rebellion would leave them, and they would be quiet as lambs."

"Indeed! that would be a miracle; but how am I to get at the stone?"

"Oh, that is aisy done. I'll hould your lordship by the heels and swing you over just--all for half a crown, and as much more as yer lordship is plased to give."

"O yes, I remember to have heard of your original way of showing up the Blarney Stone," said Lord Clare, "but how can I be sure that you will not raise your price before raising me. It strikes me that I have heard of your once playing off that trick upon a tourist."

"Ah!" said Rooney, with a sly chuckle, "yer lordship alludes to a mean-souled tailor, from London. He stood where yer lordship stands for more nor an hour, beating me down from half a crown, my lawful fee, to a shilling,--and me with seven children and the wife at home down with the fever. At last, I gave in, and swung him over. He kissed the stone, and then called to me to pull him up. 'Wait a bit, my man,' says I, 'you gave me only a shilling for letting you down; it's a dale harder job to pull you up. I must have half a crown for that same.' With that, he began to swear and call me a chate, and threaten me with the police. But I only said, 'my arms is givin' out, and I can't hold on much longer, and if you won't pay me my just demand, I shall be under the necessity of dropping yer acquaintance.' Then he began to beg, for you see, he could look down and see the ugly rocks and the black water more nor a hundred feet below him. But I told him he had bothered so long, and given my arms such a strain, that I could not let him up so aisy. At last, to save his neck, he promised me the half guinea I asked, and paid it as soon as he set foot on the tower. I know it was a big price for the article, but that was his own affair. And now, begging your lordship's pardon, for proposing such a thing as your kissing the stone after a tailor, shall I have the pleasure of suspending your lordship over the wall, this morning?"

"No, Rooney, you must excuse me. But here is your half crown, all the same," said Lord Clare, with a good-humored smile.

Just at this moment, Fanny called the attention of the party to a little girl, about her own age, who had just ascended the tower, and was standing near them, looking about her curiously and wistfully. She was evidently one of the poorest class of peasants, for her dress was coarse and patched, though clean and tidy. But she was a beautiful child. She had large, dark, tender eyes, and soft curling, brown hair; her arms and hands, though much sunburnt, and her feet, which were bare, were small and gracefully formed. Her face wore now a weary and troubled look, so little befitting a child, that it touched the hearts of all that gay company. One of the gentlemen asked very kindly what it was she wanted. She courtesied, as she answered timidly, "Sure, yer honor, it's the Blarney Stone I'm after. Will you tell me, plase, where I can find it?"

"Why, child," said Lord Clare, "what do you want of the Blarney Stone?"

"Only to kiss it, yer honor. I've come all the way from Bantry, on my two feet, barring a lift now and then on a car, just to do that same--all for the sake of poor Phin."

"And who is Phin?"