{"product_id":"2940148994176","title":"Bits of Blarney (Illustrated)","description":"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScarcely 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,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\"To lie like truth, and still most truly lie.\"\"\u003cbr\u003eImmortal poesie has already celebrated the locality of Blarney. The far-famed chanson, written by Richard Alfred Milliken,1 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\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\"The stone this is, whoever kisses,\u003cbr\u003eHe never misses to grow eloquent:\u003cbr\u003e'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,\u003cbr\u003eOr become a member of Parliament.\"\"\u003cbr\u003eBlarney 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\"'Tis Lady Jeffreys that owns this station,\u003cbr\u003eLike Alexander, or like Helen, fair.\u003cbr\u003eThere's no commander throughout the nation\u003cbr\u003eIn emulation can with her compare:\u003cbr\u003eSuch walls surround her, that no nine-pounder\u003cbr\u003eCould ever plunder her place of strength,\u003cbr\u003eTill Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel,\u003cbr\u003eAnd made a breach in her battlement.\"\"\u003cbr\u003eBetween 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e","brand":"Lost Leaf Publications","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47111689109744,"sku":"2940148994176","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940148994176_p0.jpg?v=1763710921","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940148994176","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}