Few places in Ireland are more familiar to English ears than Blarney;
the notoriety is attributable, first, to the marvellous qualities of
its famous “stone,” and next, to the extensive popularity of the song,--
“The groves of Blarney, they are so charming.”
When or how the stone obtained its singular reputation, it is difficult
to determine; the exact position among the ruins of the castle is also
a matter of doubt; the peasant-guides humour the visitor according to
his capacity for climbing, and direct, either to the summit or the
base, the attention of him who desires to “greet it with a holy kiss.”
He who has been dipped in the Shannon is presumed to have obtained, in
abundance, the gift of that “civil courage” which makes an Irishman
at ease and unconstrained in all places and under all circumstances;
and he who has kissed the Blarney stone is assumed to be endowed with
a fluent and persuasive tongue, although it may be associated with
insincerity; the term “Blarney” being generally used to characterize
words that are meant neither to be “honest nor true.” It is conjectured
that the comparatively modern application of the term “Blarney” first
had existence when the possessor, Lord Clancarty, was a prisoner to Sir
George Carew, by whom he was subjected to several examinations touching
his loyalty, which he was required to prove by surrendering his strong
castle to the soldiers of the Queen; this bet he always endeavoured
to evade by some plausible excuse, but as invariably professing his
willingness to do so. The particulars are fully detailed in the “Pacata
Hibernia.”
It is certain that to no particular stone of the ancient structure is
the marvellous quality exclusively attributed; but in order to make
it as difficult as possible to attain the enviable gift, it had long
been the custom to point out a stone, a few feet below the battlements,
which the very daring only would run the hazard of touching with their
lips. The attempt to do so was, indeed, so dangerous, that a few years
ago Mr. Jeffreys had it removed from the wall and placed on the highest
point of the building, where the visitor may now greet it with little
risk. It is about two feet square, and contains the date 1703, with
a portion of the arms of the Jeffreys family, but the date, at once,
negatives its claim to be considered the true marvel of Blarney.[7]
A few days before our visit a madman made his way to the top of the
castle, and after dancing around it for some hours, his escape from
death being almost miraculous, he flung this stone from the tower;
it was broken in the fall, and now as the guide stated to us, the
“three halves” must receive three distinct kisses to be in any degree
effective.
[Illustration: BLARNEY CASTLE, IRELAND.]
The age of the song has been satisfactorily ascertained; it was written
in the year 1798 or 1799, by Richard Alfred Millikin, an attorney
of Cork. The author little anticipated the celebrity his lines were
destined to acquire; they were composed to ridicule the nonsense verses
of the village poets, who, with a limited knowledge of the English
language, and a smattering of classical names, were in the habit of
indulging their still more ignorant auditors, by stringing together
sounds that had no sense, but conveyed a notion of the prodigious
learning of the singer.
Millikin’s song has been injurious to Ireland; it has raised many a
laugh at Ireland’s expense, and contributed largely to aid the artist
and the actor, of gone-by times, in exhibiting the Irishman as little
better than a buffoon--very amusing, no doubt, but exciting any feeling
rather than that of respect.
It is impossible to contemplate the romantic ruins of Blarney Castle
without a feeling more akin to melancholy than to pleasure; they bear,
so perfectly, the aspect of strength utterly subdued, and remind one
so forcibly that the “glory” of Ireland belongs to days departed. The
castle stands--
“as stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind.”
The stronghold of Blarney was erected about the middle of the Fifteenth
Century by Cormac MacCarthy, surnamed “Laider,” or the Strong; whose
ancestors had been chieftains in Munster from a period long antecedent
to the English invasion, and whose descendants, as Lords of Muskerry
and Clancarty, retained no inconsiderable portion of their power and
estates until the year 1689, when their immense possessions were
confiscated, and the last earl became an exile, like the monarch whose
cause he had supported. The castle, village, mills, fairs, and customs
of Blarney, with the land and park thereunto belonging, containing
1400 acres, were “set up by cant” in the year 1702, purchased by Sir
Richard Pyne, Lord Chief Justice, for £3,000, and by him disposed of,
the following year, to General Sir James Jeffreys, in whose family the
property continues. Although the walls of this castle are still strong,
many of the outworks have long since been levelled with the earth; the
plough has passed over their foundations, and “the stones of which they
were built have been used in repairing the turnpike-roads.”
The small village of Blarney is about four miles north-west of Cork;
a few years ago it was remarkably clean, neat, and thriving; its
prosperity having resulted from the establishment of several linen
and cotton factories, the whole of which have been swept away, and
the hamlet is now, like the castle, an assemblage of ruins. In the
vicinity, however, there is yet a woollen-manufactory and a paper-mill,
both in full work. The scenery in the neighbourhood is agreeable, but
the grounds that immediately surround the castle are of exceeding
beauty. Nature has done much more for them than art; although there
is evidence that the hand of taste had busied itself in the duty
of improvement. “The sweet Rock-close” is a small dell, in which
evergreens grow luxuriantly, completely shaded with magnificent trees.
At its termination, are the “Witches’ Stairs”; a series of rugged stone
steps which lead down through a passage in the rock to a delicious
spot of greensward forming the bank of a clear rivulet--and where some
singular masses appear to have been “the work of Druid hands of old.”