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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 —

      “The heathen gods,

      And nymphs so fair,

      Bold Neptune, Plutarch,

      And Nicodemus,

      All standing naked

      In the open air.”

      As Father Prout further says, the —

      “ … gravel walks there

      For speculation

      And conversation” —

      are still in good order, and to wander in —

      “The Groves of Blarney

…

      Down by the purling

      Of sweet silent streams,”

      and among the —

      “ … flowers that scent

      The sweet fragrant air” —

      is a most pleasant occupation for a summer’s afternoon.

      Blarney Castle was built in the fifteenth century by Cormac MacCarthy, and consists, to-day, of only the massive donjon tower, perhaps 120 feet in height, and another lower portion, less substantial, though hardy enough to warrant the conjecture that, before the introduction of firearms, it must have been impregnable. It is almost as marvellous as the power attributed to the Blarney Stone that a few lines of rather cheap doggerel, containing in themselves no merit save their absurdity, should succeed in gaining a world-wide notoriety for a place which, otherwise, might not have been greatly celebrated beyond its own neighbourhood.

      It is altogether incomprehensible to the writer that the real charm and romance of this castle, standing up in its fifteenth-century sternness amidst one of the greenest and most smiling districts in all green Erin, have been so obscured, of late, by the popular and vulgar traditions which are perpetuated in the horse-play of holding one another head downwards over the battlements to “kiss the stone,” though this is no longer really necessary, since another more conveniently placed stone has been provided for the purpose. It is a procedure which creates much excitement among a certain class of “trippers,” and, as it keeps a certain amount of coin in circulation in the neighbourhood, it may be accounted as a perfectly legitimate enterprise in that no actual harm is done. What a pity it is, though, that Ireland has no commission for the care of historical monuments, as has France!

      Macroom, i. e., the Plain of Croom between Cork and Killarney, was once the home and gathering-place of the famous song-bards of the ancients, the druids.

      Certainly the druids left a considerable impress upon Ireland, as they did upon Wales and Bretagne; though it may be questioned to-day, in the light of the latest information concerning the druidical race, if their strains of melody actually did pale the cheek of beauty, or even “rise the slumbering passion of the warrior to slaughter.”

      Macroom, to-day, is chiefly famous for its castle. It was built by the Carews in the time of King John, shortly after the Conquest, and was subsequently in the possession of the MacCarthys. It was burned in the rebellion of 1641. The huge square keep, now covered with ivy, is all that remains of the original structure. Admiral Sir William Penn, father of the founder of Pennsylvania, was born here. Macroom, the centre of the sporting gentry of Muskerry, for whom this barony was always famous, can also boast of a band of poets racy of the soil. In 1774, the poems of John Connolly, a Macroom man, were published in Cork. He thus sings the praises of his native town:

      “Whoever means to shake off gloom

      Let him repair to sweet Macroom,

      For here his cares he will entomb

      And think no more of sorrow.

      “Let Mallow yield to gay Macroom,

      For here we know not care nor gloom,

      Here nature wears perpetual bloom,

      And quite dispels our sorrow.”

      Near Macroom are the celebrated Inchigeela Lakes and the still more celebrated island and lake of Gougane Barra, the retreat of St. Finbarr, who had truly an eye for the beautiful and grand when he chose such a site as this for his meditations.

      On the verdant islet are the ruins of the little church, and the arched praying-stations of the pilgrims to the shrine. A holy well is also here, and its primitive materials and rude masonry indicate, at a glance, the centuries that have passed since here dwelt the “Island Saint” and anchorite, the founder of Cork. Of the many venerable anchorites who afterward occupied the dwelling, and imitated the virtues of St. Finbarr, the last was Father Denis O’Mahony, whose tomb, erected by himself in 1700, is still to be seen.

      Westward, near the border of the lake, is the “Green Valley of Desmond,” enclosed by towering mountains, from the side of one of which, “Nad-na-nillar” (the Eagle’s Nest), flows the tiny source of the river Lee, which runs through Cork to the sea. Here one fully appreciates the appellation, “Lone Gougane Barra.” Callanan, the native bard, has sung of it as follows:

      “There is a green island in Lone Gougane Barra,

      Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;

      In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains

      Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains.

      There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow

      Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow,

      As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,

      It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

      And its zone of dark hills – oh! to see them all bright’ning

      When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,

      And the waters rush down, ’mid the thunder’s deep rattle,

      Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle.

      And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,

      And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are

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