'THE groves of Blarney, they are so charming.' -R. A. MILIKEN.

WHO has not heard of Blarney? - and how few know whence this appropriate term has originated. How could they indeed, unless they made a pilgrimage to the famous castle, as I did, 'in my hot youth when George the Fourth was king,' in order, by some manœuvre, to prevail on Tom Cronin to narrate the story of all its wonders?

But Tom Cronin is dead; and, as Crofton Croker seems strangely negligent of the legendary treasures of Blarney, even I, 'albeit my pen unworthy of such a tale,' must endeavor to rally my recollections of Cronin's strange narratives, and give to the world at least a shadow of his wild and wondrous' stories.

There is no spot in Ireland which has attained more celebrity than the far-famed village of Blarney. There lies that mysterious talisman, weighing two tons at least! which has the extraordinary power of conferring great 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 upon the

SUCH of our readers as have been favored to hear POWER, the irresistible, execute that most laughable song, The Groves of Blarney,' will scarcely be startled at these 'Legends.' We consider the latter entitled to full as much credence as the former. EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

flinty rock, and the kisser is instantly endowed with the happy faculty of flattering the fair sex, ad libitum, without their suspicion that it is flattery. It enables him, like history,

'To lie like truth, and still most truly lie.'

Immortal poësy has already celebrated the localities of Blarney. Who has not heard or read of Richard Alfred Miliken's far-famed chanson, The Groves of Blarney? It should be known, that Blarney Castle really is surrounded by these aforenamed groves. It stands about four miles to the northwest of 'the beautiful city called Cork,' and, of course in the noted district of Muskerry.

All that now can be seen, are the remains of an antique castellated pile, to the east of which (rather incongruously) has been attached, about a hundred years ago, a large mansion of modern architecture.

The old castle was erected in the middle of the fifteenth century. Cormac Macarthy, (surnamed Laider, or the strong,) a descendant of the ancient kings of Cork, and one of the most powerful of the Munster chieftains, is reported to have built this massy pile. Our readers will excuse a page or so of the history of this castle: it is quite enough to be informed, that it passed into many hands, and at the time of the Revolution of 1688, was part of the estates of the Earl of Clancarty, who was an active partisan of James II. When the Prince of Orange became lord of the ascendant, the earl was sent into exile, his titles and estates forfeited to the crown, and Blarney Castle, with its contiguous lands, was put up to auction at Chichester House, Dublin, when they were purchased by Sir James Jeffereys, to whose family it still belongs.

The castle stands on the north side of a precipitate ridge of limestone rock, rising from a deep valley, and its base is washed by a small but beautiful river, called the Awmartin. A large square and massive tower is all that remains of the original fortress. The top of this building is surrounded with a parapet, breast high, and on the very highest part of the castle walls is the famous stone which is said to have the power just mentioned, of conferring on every gentleman who kisses it the peculiar property of telling any thing with an unblushing cheek, and forehead unabashed.' From this came the well known terms blarney, and blarney-stone. It may be added, that the real stone is in such a dangerous situation, on account of its elevation, that it is rarely kissed, save by some very adventurous pilgrims. The stone which officiates as its deputy, is one that was loosened by a shot from the cannon of Oliver Cromwell's troops, in 1646 (under the command of Lord Broghill, afterward the celebrated Earl of Orrery,) who were encamped on the hill behind the castle: this stone is secured in its place by iron staunchions, and it is to this that the visitants to Blarney pay their oscular homage, by mistake.

Between the castle and the hill just mentioned, there is a sweet vale called the Rock Close, a charming spot where, or legends lie, the little elves of fairy-land assembled to hold midnight revelry. There is a lake of unfathomable depth at one end of this vale, and superstition has many a tale of its wonders.

It was in the summer of 1825, that Sir Walter Scott paid a visit to Blarney he was accompanied by Miss Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Mr. Lockhart, (the present editor of the Quarterly Review.)

A few days after his visit, it was my fortune to tread in his steps to the same classic shrine. The barefooted and talkative guide who accompanied me over the castle, thus described the Ariosto of the North, and his companions: A tall, bulky man, who halted a great deal, came here with his daughter and a thin lady, and a great dash of a gentleman, with a bright eye, that looked here and there and every where in a minute. They thrust themselves, ransacking, into every nook and cranny that a rat would not go through, scarcely. When the lame gentleman came to the top of the castle, he was delighted, and took all the country down upon paper: then one of us sang The Groves of Blarney.' He made us sing it again, and said that he'd converse a poem on the castle himself, may be!'

The curious reader will hardly consider it an useless digression, if I here introduce two or three stanzas of the song which could tempt Scott into a half promise to converse a poem on the castle himself, may be!' It is one of the most ridiculous extravaganzas (ridiculous by intention) that was ever penned. The con-fusion of its similes, and the pro-fusion of its praise, run counter in a poetical hand gallop. For example:

"Tis Lady Jeffereys that owns this station,

Like Alexander or Helen fair;

There's not one commander throughout this nation,

For emulation can with her compare:

There's castles around her, but no nine pounder

Would dare for to enter this place of strength;

But Oliver Cromwell he did it pummel,

And made a breach in her battlement.'

What follows, must be intended for pure description:

'There's gravel walks there, for contemplation,
And conversation in sweet solitude:
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover in the afternoon;
And if a young lady would be so engaging
As to take a walk in their shady bowers,
'Tis there her lover, he might transport her,

To some dark fort underneath the flowers.'

There is something once new and naïve in the idea of 'gravel walks for contemplation,' and its rather rare, to hear 'conversation in sweet solitude.' N'importe! What is writ is writ: would it were worthier!' The last verse that I shall quote (I cannot resist the temptation,) is far richer:

'Tis there's the cave, where no daylight enters,
But cats, rats, and badgers for ever breed;
All decked by Nature, which makes it sweeter,
Than a coach and six, or a bed of down;
'Tis there the lake's well stored with perches,
And comely eels in the verdant mud,
Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches
All standing up in order to guard the flood.'*

* Paudeen O'Rafferty's emendation of this stanza is in our opinion a great improveHe sings:

ment.

"T is there's the cave, where no daylight enters,

But cats, rats, and badgers are foriver bred;

All deck'd by Nature, which makes it much more complater,

Than a coach and six, or a downy bed.

"Tis there's the lake, well stored with fishes,

And comely eels in the verdant mud that play

There's them tront and them salmon playin' together at ba'gammon,

And when you go to take hould o' them, don't they immadiently swim away!

The last four lines are quite inimitable. 'The comely eels in the verdant mud' would form quite a picture: but what can surpass the idea of the 'groves of beeches all standing up in order to guard the flood,' like so many tall sentinels? I know nothing like it in the whole range of poësy, except two lines in the cobler's song on castle Hyde, (of which, by the way, the Groves of Blarney, is an imitation,) which describe

'The trout and salmon, a playing back-ammon,

All by the banks of sweet Castle Hyde!'

It is time to leave these rhymes, and return to the redoubtable Tom Cronin, the best story-teller,' to use his own words, 'from the Giant's Causeway to Cape Clear.'

This worthy I met, after my visit to the castle. I had struck from the common path into that which led through the Rock Close. This valley is divided into several fields, all of which are extremely fertile, except that immediately washed by the lake. It was now in the month of June, and although the mower had begun to cut down the rich grass of the other fields, there was scarcely a blade upon this one. All was as green, smooth, and close-shaven, as the turf before a cottage ornée. While I was remarking this, I was startled by a sudden touch on the shoulder turning round, I found myself vis-à-vis with an Herculeanbuilt fellow, who doffed his hat, made an attempt at a bow, and without farther preface, commenced:

Wondering at this meadow being so bare, I'll warrant you, Sir?' 'Why, I must own that I was.'

'And didn't know the why and the wherefore of it, may be? It's Tom Cronin, and that's myself, that can tell you all about it in the twinkling of an eye.'

And pray, who may Tom Cronin be?'

Faith, Sir, you know mighty little, if you don't know me!

Not

know Cronin, the great philomath, that bothered the provost of old Trinity by his mathematics? May be never once heard of the great Cronin, that does all the questions and answers in the Lady's Diary?' 'No, indeed, Mr. Cronin! But I'm a stranger here, as you may perceive.

'Strange enough, I'll be bound. Then I am that same Tom Cronin-our ingenious correspondent,' as the Mathematical Journal calls me, when it refuses one of my contributions for want of space,' bad luck to 'em as if they could not push out something else to make way for me. Mighty curious, altogether, Sir, that you never heard of me, that keeps one of the finest schools, under a hedge, in Munster! Sit down on the bank here, and I'll enlighten you so about that goodlooking lake before your two eyes, that you won't forget me in a hurry, I'll be bound.'

I complied with the desire of my new acquaintance, and listened to the following legend:

'ONCE upon a time, and there was no lake here at all. The place where that lake is, was a large castle, and in it there dwelt an unbaptized giant 'twas long before St. Patrick came to the country-who kept martial rule over all the country, far and near. At that time the Aw

martin, or any other river did not flow near us; and although there was plenty of wine in the castle, there was a great want of water. This was mighty inconvenient for the ladies of the castle-the fellow had as many wives as a Turk - they wanted sadly to wash their pretty faces, and their clothes, and more than that, they could not make a cup of tea, by any means.'

'Fair and easy, Mr. Cronin tea was not used in those days.'

"That's more than you know; and, once for all, it puts me out if I'm interrupted. So, one and all, they sent a petition to the giant, that he'd be good enough to get them a well of water. So, when he read it, he made no more adieu, but whipped off through the air, just like an angel, to his old aunt, who was a fairy, and had foretold that some day or other, water would be the death of him.

And when he met her, he told her what he came about, and said that he never would mind what the women prayed for, but it was greatly against his health to be obliged to drink his wine and whiskey raw, and he'd a longing desire for a little of the creature neatly mixed up with lemon and sugar, and water; which shows, clear as fate, that the barbarian knew what was good, for none but an ignoramus ever turned up his nose at a tumbler of whiskey punch.

So, after a world of entreaty, the old fairy gave him a little bottle. Take this,' said she, ‘and dig a hole in the rock behind the castle barbican, where the sun shines latest before he sinks into the west; make a stone cover for the top of it, that may fit exactly when that's done, pour the water out of this bottle into the hole in the rock, and there will be a well of pure water, as much as all your family can use; but when no one is taking water from the well, the stone cover must be on it, for it is the nature of this water to overflow, unless it be kept confined.'

To be sure, he gave her a thousand thanks, and home he went. The first thing he did was to quarry the hole in the rock; then to fit it with a stone cover; and, lastly, to pour in the water. Sure enough, there sprang up a well, and from that day forward they had as much water as ever they wanted. The giant then called all his family, and told them that the stone cover must always be over the well; and, to be sure that it was, he appointed his wives, turn about, to sit by the stone itself all day long, and watch it. They did not like this office, but sooner than lose the spring of water, they agreed to obey.

Things went on very well for some time. But at last, as is always the case when a woman is in the way, there came a sad blow up. One of the giant's wives was a foreigner, and was married to some other man before she fell into his hands. Mild and pale she always was, pretty creature, lamenting the land that she had left, and the lover she had lost. It happened that one day as she sat by the well, there came an old pilgrim by the gate, and he held out his pitcher for a draught of water: her thoughts were far away, never fear. But women are all kind and gentle creatures, and she raised off the cover to fill his vessel. While she was doing this, the pilgrim pulled off his gown and false beard, and who was it but her own, own husband! She sprang off her seat toward him, and then, faint as death, and just as pale, she sank back into the old oaken chair on which she sat. A bird never flew the air faster, than he toward her. He seated himself on the seat, held her gently in his arms, and sprinkled her with water until the color