Chapter 8

Lord Clare at first smiled at this simple, childish faith, then grew serious, and sitting down on a flowery bank, drew his little daughter on to his knee, and explained to her how the story of fairies was, in the beginning, only a fable of poets and romance-writers, and was now only believed in by ignorant peasants, like her Irish nurse; that, in truth, there were no such beings as the fairies in all the world. When he had finished, he was surprised to see that the child had covered her face with her hands, and that the tears were fast trickling through her fingers. "What is my little daughter weeping for?" he asked.

"For the fairies, papa; the dear, beautiful fairies. I can't believe in them any more."

"But was it not right for papa to tell you the truth, my darling, even though it gave you pain?"

"Yes, I suppose it was. But, oh, papa, somehow things don't look so beautiful as they did when I believed in the 'good people.' Then every bank of moss, or bit of green turf, I thought might be a fairy ball-room. Whenever I saw a flower, or a leaf floating on the water, I thought some fairy might be sailing on it. I was almost sure full-blown roses were the thrones of fairy queens, and buds just opening they were the little baby-fairies' cradles. Oh, it was so beautiful! and then, the kindness and goodness of the wee things, papa; that is, when you did not happen to offend them. They were always helping people out of trouble, especially poor persecuted princes and princesses, and they were such fast friends of good children--at least, so nurse and the fairy books said, and I used to believe so;--now it's all over."

"But, my daughter," said Lord Clare, "we can be better than fairies to one another, if we will; and then, remember, that we have God's good angels to watch over and help us, when they can."

"Yes," said Fanny, brightening up a little, "that is some comfort."

It was soon after this conversation that the party ascended the old crumbly stone steps of the great tower of the castle. After enjoying the fine prospect from the summit for some time, Lord Clare inquired for the famous Blarney Stone.

Rooney, the guide, a shrewd, smooth-tongued fellow, leaned over the ruined parapet, and pointing to a stone, several feet below, replied, "There it is, yer honor, the rale meraculous ould stone. Sure if your lordship would so demane yourself as to kiss it, to-day, you would never have any trouble in governing Irishmen at all. You would have only to spake, and the spirit of fight and rebellion would leave them, and they would be quiet as lambs."

"Indeed! that would be a miracle; but how am I to get at the stone?"

"Oh, that is aisy done. I'll hould your lordship by the heels and swing you over just--all for half a crown, and as much more as yer lordship is plased to give."

"O yes, I remember to have heard of your original way of showing up the Blarney Stone," said Lord Clare, "but how can I be sure that you will not raise your price before raising me. It strikes me that I have heard of your once playing off that trick upon a tourist."

"Ah!" said Rooney, with a sly chuckle, "yer lordship alludes to a mean-souled tailor, from London. He stood where yer lordship stands for more nor an hour, beating me down from half a crown, my lawful fee, to a shilling,--and me with seven children and the wife at home down with the fever. At last, I gave in, and swung him over. He kissed the stone, and then called to me to pull him up. 'Wait a bit, my man,' says I, 'you gave me only a shilling for letting you down; it's a dale harder job to pull you up. I must have half a crown for that same.' With that, he began to swear and call me a chate, and threaten me with the police. But I only said, 'my arms is givin' out, and I can't hold on much longer, and if you won't pay me my just demand, I shall be under the necessity of dropping yer acquaintance.' Then he began to beg, for you see, he could look down and see the ugly rocks and the black water more nor a hundred feet below him. But I told him he had bothered so long, and given my arms such a strain, that I could not let him up so aisy. At last, to save his neck, he promised me the half guinea I asked, and paid it as soon as he set foot on the tower. I know it was a big price for the article, but that was his own affair. And now, begging your lordship's pardon, for proposing such a thing as your kissing the stone after a tailor, shall I have the pleasure of suspending your lordship over the wall, this morning?"

"No, Rooney, you must excuse me. But here is your half crown, all the same," said Lord Clare, with a good-humored smile.

Just at this moment, Fanny called the attention of the party to a little girl, about her own age, who had just ascended the tower, and was standing near them, looking about her curiously and wistfully. She was evidently one of the poorest class of peasants, for her dress was coarse and patched, though clean and tidy. But she was a beautiful child. She had large, dark, tender eyes, and soft curling, brown hair; her arms and hands, though much sunburnt, and her feet, which were bare, were small and gracefully formed. Her face wore now a weary and troubled look, so little befitting a child, that it touched the hearts of all that gay company. One of the gentlemen asked very kindly what it was she wanted. She courtesied, as she answered timidly, "Sure, yer honor, it's the Blarney Stone I'm after. Will you tell me, plase, where I can find it?"

"Why, child," said Lord Clare, "what do you want of the Blarney Stone?"

"Only to kiss it, yer honor. I've come all the way from Bantry, on my two feet, barring a lift now and then on a car, just to do that same--all for the sake of poor Phin."

"And who is Phin?"

"He is my brother, sir--my own brother, and he has gone and 'listed, and it's breaking my mother's heart; and sure, yer honor, if he goes away for a soldier, she will die, and it's all alone in the world I'll be." With that, her little red lips began to quiver, and the tears to fall from her soft, brown eyes.

"But what good will it do Phin, for you to kiss the Blarney Stone?" asked one of the ladies.

"Whist!" said the child, looking about her, and speaking low, as though afraid of being overheard by some one unfriendly to Phin, "it's just a little plot of my own. I was told that the new lord-lieutenant was coming to Cork, and I knew he could let poor Phin off from being a soldier; so I said nothing to nobody, but came up to entrate him. You see I had often heard how this same Blarney Stone would give people an ilegant and moving discoorse; and sure I thought I'd need to kiss it, before I could stand up forninst a great lord, and say my story. That is all, yer ladyship."

"Oh, little girl!" cried Fanny, joyfully, "you need not kiss the old stone for that, for my papa is--" Here the impulsive little girl caught a warning look from her father, and paused suddenly, while his lordship took up the conversation with the peasant child.

"What is your name?"

"Norah McCarthy, yer honor."

"Ah, quite a pretty name. Well, Norah, how came this brother of yours to enlist?"

"Och! it all came from going to Darby O'Hallagher's wake."

"What is a wake?" asked Fanny.

"A wake, my darling young lady," said Rooney, very politely, "sure it's an entertainment that a man gives after he is dead, when his disconsolate friends all assemble at his house, to discuss his virtues and drink his poteen. There is one who is called a 'keener,' usually an elderly woman, with a touch of madness, or poetry, and a wild rolling eye, who chants a 'keen,' or lamentation; in short, it's a sort of melancholy frolic, where we only drink to drown our sorrow--a good old Irish custom. Now, go on, Norah, my jewel."

"Well, may be Phin was a great mourner for Darby, for he was overtaken in drink that night, and brought shame upon himself, that had always been a dacent and a sober lad; and the next day Mary Nelligan wouldn't spake to him, and even our mother turned her face away from him; and so, with the hot shame at his heart, he went straight to the sergeant and 'listed. He was sorry soon, and Mary was sorry, and mother is just kilt with grief, for she has nobody to look to now."

"And to obtain your brother's discharge, you have come on this pilgrimage to Blarney Castle, my poor child?" said Lord Clare, laying his hand gently on the little girl's head.

"Yes, and will yer honor kindly point out the stone to me? for I must go back to Cork this day."

Lord Clare took her by the hand, and leading her to the parapet, pointed down to the stone, imbedded in the outside wall. "Ah," cried Norah, in a tone of dismay and grief, "how can I reach it there? and where am I to get the heart to spake up to the lord-lieutenant for poor Phin?"

Just then, an idea of testing the courage and devotion of the child occurred to Lord Clare. Unwinding from his waist a long silk, military sash, he said, "If you will let me tie this around you, under your arms, and let you down by it, you can kiss the Blarney Stone, and I will draw you up again. Are you brave enough to venture?"

As Norah looked down from what seemed to her a dreadful height, she grew dizzy and shrank back; but when she looked up into the calm, kind eyes of Lord Clare, she took courage, and said she would go. As he tied the sash firmly about her, she said,--"If yer honor finds me heavy you'll not let me fall, for sure you have a colleen (girl) of your own."

She put up a little prayer when she went over the wall, which I doubt not was lovingly listened to, by Him who blessed little children. Safely she was lowered to the stone, and eagerly she pressed against it her soft red lips, and then called out, "I've done it, yer honor; now pull me up, if you plase."

As Lord Clare lifted her up over the parapet, Fanny, in admiration of her courage, rushed forward, flung her arms about her and kissed her--calling her "the best and bravest girl in the world." The ladies and gentlemen of the party all made presents of money, which she received with grateful thanks, but seemed bewildered by their great kindness and in a hurry to get away.

"Where are you going?" asked one.

"Back to Cork, sure, to find the lord-lieutenant, while the feel of the Blarney Stone is on my lips."

"But how will you get to speak to him?"

"Ah, then, I cannot tell; but the saints will help me, may be."

"I will tell you what to do," said Lord Clare. "Come to the Royal Hotel, where he lodges, just after the Review, to-day. I know him, and will see that orders are given to admit you, at once."

"But hadn't I better wait till his lordship has dined?" asked Norah, "for I have heard that gentlemen are better natured after dinner."

"Ah, you are a shrewd child," said Lord Clare, laughing, "but you forget that you have kissed the Blarney Stone, and need not fear even a hungry lord-lieutenant. Come at the time I set."

"And keep up good courage," whispered Fanny. "You can't expect any help from the fairies, for there are no such little folks nowadays; but there are the angels, you know--and my papa, he is almost as good as a fairy."

At the hour appointed for receiving his humble petitioner, the lord-lieutenant was standing in his parlor, at the Royal Hotel, with a group of officers in rich uniforms and ladies in full dress about him. He was amusing some of the company who had not been with him in the morning, by an account of the simplicity and heroism of the beautiful Irish child he had met, when she was shown in, by a pompous serving-man, in showy livery, who looked very much astonished and somewhat indignant at being obliged to introduce such a humble little body to a room full of grand people. But no one cared for his looks. Norah was dazzled by the sight of so much splendid dress, and went forward with timid, wavering steps to where she was told the lord-lieutenant was standing. She stood before him, quite silent for a moment, her eyes cast down, and a painful blush overspreading her artless face; then, in a trembling, hesitating voice, she began--"Will yer honor plase--no, may it plase yer lord-lieutenantship to let our poor Phin go! Sure, with all these fine soldiers you'll never miss him, and then"--here she stammered and broke quite down. Covering her face with her hands, she cried out, half sorrowfully and half in vexation, "Bad luck to the Blarney Stone! There's no good in it at all, at all--sorra a word more will it give me to spake."

Lord Clare laughed at this--a pleasant, familiar laugh--and Norah dropped her hands and looked up full in his face, for the first time during the interview. In an instant, her eyes flashed joyfully through their tears, she clapped her hands and cried,--"Blessed Saint Patrick it is himself!" The next moment, Fanny was at her side, smiling and whispering joyfully, "Didn't I tell you my papa was almost as good as a fairy?"

To make a long story short, I will say that Phin McCarthy's discharge was soon obtained, and Norah McCarthy returned to Bantry, by the public car, loaded with presents from the generous friends her beauty and brave devotion had made.

A short time after, as the lord-lieutenant and his party were passing through Bantry, on their way to Killarney, their travelling car was surrounded by the McCarthys and Nelligans, (Mary Nelligan was already Mrs. Phin McCarthy,) all come to return their thanks.

Little Lady Frances was very happy to see her Irish friend, who looked prettier than ever, in a neat new dress; and drawing her father's face down to hers, she whispered,--"Oh, papa, dear! won't you take Norah home with us, to be my little maid?" This thought had already occurred to Lord Clare, so he proposed it at once to Mrs. McCarthy. Though feeling greatly honored, the good woman was, at first, unwilling to part from her darling, and Norah to go so far from her mother; but when his lordship promised that they should often visit each other, they gratefully consented.

So Norah went to live in Dublin Castle, as the maid and playmate of Lady Frances. She was always most kindly cared for, received a good education, and was treated more as a friend than as a servant by all Lord Clare's household, for she ever retained her simple, endearing ways, and was as good as she was beautiful.

When she had been a year or two in his family, Lord Clare one day explained to her, as well as he could, the curious superstition of the Blarney Stone,--assuring her that there was in reality no virtue or power in it whatever. Norah smiled and blushed at his earnest words, as she answered in her sweet brogue, which she had not yet been educated out of,--"My Lady Frances told me long ago, that the fairies were all a pretty fable, and the Blarney Stone was like any other stone, just. I'll let the fairies go, but," (taking Fanny's hand and kissing it,) "by your lordship's leave and hers, I will stand by the Blarney Stone, for the good fortune it has brought me."

A Visit to the Lakes of Killarney.

KATHLEEN OF KILLARNEY.

The morning of our leaving Cork was dark and rainy; but it gradually cleared up, and by the time we reached Bantry, the first place of much note on our route, all was bright and smiling, overhead and along our way.

Bantry Bay is very beautiful, and is historically remarkable as the place where the French have twice attempted a landing, for the purpose of invading and revolutionizing Ireland.

Late in the afternoon, we arrived at Glengariff--one of the wildest and yet loveliest spots in all that picturesque country. How I wish I could give you such an idea of it as I have in my own mind--a great, magnificent picture, painted on my memory--in some parts sunny and green, and flowery; in others, dark and rugged, and grand. I shall always particularly remember a long row we had on the bay, in the twilight, and how the scenery of the mountainous shore and the rocky islands, and the swelling, booming waves, grew stern, solemn, and even awful, in the fast-falling shadows of evening, and the rising winds and gloomy clouds of a coming storm.

But the next morning, every thing was more sweet and quiet and radiant than I can tell. So, wild Glengariff smiled upon us in our parting, but we found it hard to smile back. We really felt sad to go so soon and forever from such a bit of paradise.

We travelled now upon a large outside car, which allowed us to see every thing on our way, and would have been a very pleasant conveyance if it had not left us too much exposed to the attacks of the beggars. The seats were so low that when the car was going slowly up the hills, we could step off and walk--so, of course, the beggars could come close beside us. Nothing kept them off--neither laughing, nor commanding; alms-giving, nor refusals. Drive as fast as we might, they kept up with us--crowds of little boys and girls, and sometimes full-grown men and women. Some of the children were exceedingly handsome, with black hair and eyes, and dark olive skins--descendants, it is said, of the Spaniards, who, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, invaded Ireland.

The Lakes of Killarney would scarcely be called _lakes_ in our country, where we boast such grand inland seas under that name. They are small, but certainly very beautiful, and surrounded by delightful scenery. They are three in number--the Upper, the Lower, and Torc Lake.

The town of Killarney has a miserable, dilapidated appearance, and is overflowing with beggars. We did not stop here, however, but at a hotel a mile or two away, on the northern shore of the Lower Lake--a most charming situation. A little way out of the town, we had stopped to visit Torc waterfall--a beautiful cascade, in a wild and shady glen--one of the very finest sights of that region.

In the morning, we set out early on an excursion through the Gap of Dunloe, to the Upper Lake. This time I was mounted on a fleet-footed pony, which gave me an advantage over the beggars. One friend rode beside me; the others were, as usual, on a jaunting car.

The "Gap" is a long, dark, rocky pass, with a noisy stream, called the Loe, rushing through it. On the right, are the mountains called the Reeks; on the left, the Toomies, and the "Purple Mountain." On reaching the Upper Lake, we left our ponies and car, and embarked in a boat, which was awaiting us, for a row down a still, silvery, and fairy-like sheet of water. Passing many green and flowery islands--always in sight of grand mountains and lovely shores--we entered upon "the long range"--a sort of river, connecting the lakes. On this stands old "Eagle's Nest," a mountain about eleven hundred feet in height, on whose summit the eagles have built their nests for centuries.

It is principally remarkable for the fine echoes which it gives forth. Our guide played the bugle before it, and every note came back, clear and sweet.

Mrs. Hall, in her beautiful book on Ireland, relates an amusing story which a peasant told her, of a daring attempt a mountaineer once made to rob the eagle's nest. He watched till he saw the old eagles fly away, and then let himself down by a rope from the rock above, and was just about to seize upon the young eaglets, when suddenly out darts the mother eagle from a thunder-cloud, and stood facing him! But she spoke very civilly, and said--

"Good morning, sir; and what brings you to visit my fine family so early, before they've had their breakfast?"

"Oh, nothing at all," said the man, "only to ax after their health, ma'am, and to see if any of them is troubled with the tooth-ache; for I've got a cure for it, here in my pocket, something I brought wid me from furrin parts."

"Aha! and you brought some _blarney_ in the other pocket," said the mother eagle; "for don't I know you came to steal my children--the darlings?"

"Honor bright," said he, "do you raly think now I'd be sarving ye such a mane trick as that?"

"I'll leave it to a neighbor of mine," said she; and with that she raised her voice and screeched out--"Did he come to rob the eagle's nest?"

Of course, the echo answered--"To rob the eagle's nest."

"Hear that! you thieving blackguard," said the eagle, "and take _that_ home with you!" and with one blow of her great beak, she pitched him over, and he tumbled down the mountainside into the lake; getting severely bruised and well ducked for interfering with the domestic happiness of his neighbors.

About a mile below this mountain, we passed under Old Weir Bridge. This is called "shooting the bridge," and unless you have very skilful boatmen, is considered very dangerous, as the rapids are swift and strong.

We next passed the bay and mountain of Glena, by far the most beautiful scenes of Killarney.

We took dinner on shore, seated on the soft, cool grass, under the shade of arbutus-trees, and after a little stroll, returned over the water to our hotel, but a very little wearied by our day of pleasure.

Our first excursion the next morning was to the ruins of Muckross Abbey, on a peninsula which divides the Lower Lake from Torc Lake.

This is a beautiful, solemn old spot, and is very much venerated by the Irish peasantry, not only as having been built and occupied by holy priests and saints, but as the burial-place of many of the ancient Princes of Desmond, the MacCartys-Mor, and the O'Donoghues.

After leaving the Abbey, we commenced the ascent of Mangerton, a mountain some 2,550 feet high. We were now all mounted on ponies, who were very sagacious and sure-footed, and climbed the rocky, narrow path like goats. We were followed every step of the way by a host of lads and girls, carrying jugs and cups of milk and whisky, which they offered to us at almost every moment. The greatest curiosity upon this mountain is a little lake, near the summit, called, "The Devil's Punch-Bowl." It is surrounded by almost perpendicular rocks; the water is very dark, and is said to be unfathomable. Though so completely shut in, it is never calm, and though icy cold in summer, it never freezes in winter.

From the summit, we had a vast, magnificent view, which, however, I must confess, I enjoyed less than the wild, frolicking ride which I took soon after, down the mountain, following closely upon the steps of one of my friends, who, for mischief, went far out of the path, and took his way over rocks and gullies, through bogs and briars. It was great sport to us, but I am afraid my poor pony had some private objections to it.

We enjoyed another pic-nic dinner in Lord Kenmare's grounds, and afterwards rowed to the lovely little island of Innisfallen, upon which are some ruins of a famous old abbey, which is said to have been built as early as the seventh century.

From Innisfallen we went to Ross Castle--a very well-preserved ruin.

In old times it was the stronghold of the war-like O'Donoghues. It was besieged in 1652, by the forces of Cromwell, commanded by General Ludlow, and though very strong and well provisioned, surrendered, with scarcely an attempt at defence. The reason of this was that the garrison was frightened at seeing the war ships which Ludlow brought against them--as, long before, some old priest or wizard had made a prophecy that when such vessels should appear on the lake, all would be up with the castle. So superstition makes cowards of the bravest men.