Bits of Blarney

Shelton Mackenzie R.

Description

This delightful collection from R. Shelton Mackenzie brings together a series of Irish stories, tales, myths, jokes, and folklore collected by the author over the course of his life. Presented in a warm, conversational tone, Bits of Blarney is a must-read for fans of Gaelic culture.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776536719
• Langue: English

Extrait

BITS OF BLARNEY
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R. SHELTON MACKENZIE
 
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Bits of Blarney First published in 1855 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-671-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-672-6 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Dedication LEGENDS Bits of Blarney Legend of the Lake The Legend of Corrig-Na-Cat Legend of the Rock Close Con O'Keefe and the Golden Cup Legends of Finn Mac Coul Finn and the Fish The Breaks of Ballynascorney Finn Mac Coul's Finger-Stone IRISH STORIES The Petrified Piper The Geraldine Captain Rock A Night with the Whiteboys Buck English ECCENTRIC CHARACTERS The Bard O'Kelly Father Prout Father Prout's Sermon Irish Dancing-Masters Charley Crofts IRISH PUBLICISTS Henry Grattan Daniel O'Connell Endnotes
Dedication
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To J. S. Redfield, Esq.
MY DEAR SIR:—The deified heroes of the Norse mythology are believed tospend their afternoons in drinking something stronger than lemonade outof their enemies' skulls, and some ill-natured persons, seizing on theidea, have declared that publishers use the skulls of their authors asdrinking-cups, in the same manner. For my own part, I discredit theassertion—as far as my relations with yourself enable me to judge; Isuspect that the time has gone by when Napoleon's health was drank as "afriend of literature," because he had shot a bookseller; and I give youunlimited permission to use my skull, in the Norse fashion, providedthat you wait until "in death I shall calm recline," when I shall haveno further occasion for it. In such case, the least you can do will beto drink my memory, "in solemn silence"—the beverage beingwhiskey-punch, as a delicate compliment to my country.
Seriously speaking (or writing), however, I take leave to dedicate thisvolume to you, with the solemn assurance that my doing so must not betaken as—a Bit of Blarney.
The book is Irish—to all intents and purposes, and is put forth withthe least possible pretence. It contains Legends—familiar to me in myyouth; Stories, which, more or less, are literally "founded upon facts;"recollections of Eccentric Characters, whose peculiarities it would havebeen difficult to exaggerate;—and Sketches of the two great Irishleaders of the last and present century, Grattan, who won NationalIndependence for Ireland, and O'Connell, who obtained Emancipation forthe great majority of his countrymen. The Sketch of the great Agitatorhas extended almost to a biography—but I knew the man well, and writeof him on that knowledge. In this volume he is certainly entitled to aniche, having been the greatest professor of "Blarney" these later dayshave seen or heard.
Yours faithfully, R. SHELTON MACKENZIE
NEW YORK, August 20, 1855 .
LEGENDS
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Bits of Blarney
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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 manœuvre 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.
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 ornée . While I was remarking this, I was startled by a sudden touchupon the shoulder, and, turning round, I found myself vis-à-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 li