Since Blarney, the castle, and the lake are practically a suburb of Cork, they should be considered therewith. Blarney Castle—which is situated, as the native says, “a long mile from the railway station”—is of interest more because it is an exceedingly good specimen of mediæval castle building than because of the notoriety of what Father Prout was pleased to call an “impudence-conferring” stone.
As a sentiment or superstition, the alleged incidents or circumstances connected with the “Blarney Stone” are harmless enough; but far more importance has been given to its rather negative charms than is really justified.
Blarney Castle itself, with its surrounding “groves of Blarney which look so charming,” and its real and tangible fabric, is of vastly appealing interest; but, usually, it has faded into insignificance in the eyes of those who contemplate the setting which has been given to the all-powerful block of stone. The glib tongue of the native has done much to perpetuate the tradition that whoever kisses it—and accompanies the act with persuasive eloquence, so perceptible in all the folk around about Cork Harbour—is for ever endowed with blessings innumerable, if not actually with superhuman power.
The “real stone,” which bore the inscription, “Cormac MacCarthy Fortis Mi Fieri Fecit, A.D. 1446,” now untraceable, or at least illegible, was at the north angle. It was clasped by two iron bars to a projecting buttress at the top of the castle, several feet below the level of the wall, so that, to perform the kissing feat in ancient times, it was necessary to hold on by the bars, and project the body over the wall. The candidate for Blarney honours to-day will find another “real stone,” bearing the date 1703, and clasped by two iron bars, placed within the tower, where it is quite accessible.
The “Reliques of Father Prout” contain this allusion to the “Stone:”
“There is a stone there,
That whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses
To grow eloquent.
’Tis he may clamber
To a lady’s chamber,
Or become a member
Of Parliament.
“A clever spouter
He’ll sure turn out, or
An out and outer,
To be let alone!
Don’t hope to hinder him
Or to bewilder him,
Sure he’s a pilgrim
From the Blarney Stone.”
The pleasure-grounds surrounding the castle, which were formerly adorned with statues, grottoes, alcoves, bridges, and every description of rustic ornament, are still very beautiful, although it is true that:
“The muses shed a tear,
When the cruel auctioneer,
With his hammer in his hand, to sweet Blarney came.”
And so their beauty has gradually diminished, and the fine old trees have been felled, and one looks in vain for the statues of—