was taken from under its sacerdotal bushel, and placed conspicuously before a man fit to appreciate the effulgence of so brilliant a luminary—a light which I, who pen these words in sorrow, alas! shall never gaze on more! a light

"That ne'er shall shine again
On Blarney's stream!"

That day it illumined the "cave," the "shady walks,” and the "sweet rock-close," and sent its gladdening beam into the gloomiest vaults of the ancient fort; for all the recondite recesses of the castle were explored in succession by the distinguished poet and the learned priest, and Prout held a candle to Scott.

We read with interest, in the historian Polybius, the account of Hannibal's interview with Scipio on the plains of Zama; and often have we, in our schoolboy days of unsophisticated feeling, sympathised with Ovid, when he told us that he only got a glimpse of Virgil; but Scott basked for a whole summer's day in the blaze of Prout's wit, and witnessed the coruscations of his learning. The great Marius is said never to have appeared to such advantage as when seated on the ruins of Carthage: with equal dignity Prout sat on the Blarney stone, amid ruins of kindred glory. Zeno taught in the "porch;" Plato loved to muse alone on the bold jutting promontory of Cape Sunium; Socrates, bent on finding Truth, "in sylvis

Academi quærere verum," sought her among the bowers of Academus; Prout courted the same coy nymph, and wooed her in the "groves of Blarney."

Such was the

I said that it was in the summer of 1825 that Sir Walter Scott, in the progress of his tour through Ireland, reached Cork, and forthwith intimated his wish to proceed at once on a visit to Blarney Castle. For him the noble river, the magnificent estuary, and unrivalled harbour of a city that proudly bears on her civic escutcheon the well-applied motto, "Statio bene fida carinis," had but little attraction when placed in competition with a spot sacred to the Muses, and wed to immortal melody. interest which its connexion with the popular literature and traditionary stories of the country had excited in that master-mind-such the predominance of its local reminiscences—such the transcendent influence of song! For this did the then "Great Unknown" wend his way through the fetid purlieus of "Golden Spur," traversing the great manufacturing fauxbourg of "Black Pool," and emerging by the "Red Forge;" so intent on the classic object of his pursuit, as to disregard the unpromising aspect of the vestibule by which alone it is approachable. Many are the splendid mansions and hospitable halls that stud the suburbs of the "beautiful city," each boasting its grassy lawn and placid lake, each decked with park and woodland, and each well furnished with that

paramount appendage, a batterie de cuisine; but all these castles were passed unheeded by, carent quia vate sacro. Gorgeous residences, picturesque seats, magnificent villas, they be, no doubt; but unknown to literature, in vain do, they plume themselves on their architectural beauty; in vain do they spread wide their well-proportioned wings-they cannot soar aloft to the regions of celebrity.

On the eve of that memorable day I was sitting on a stool in the priest's parlour, poking the turf fire, while Prout, who had been angling all day, sat nodding over his "breviary," and, according to my calculation, ought to be at the last psalm of vespers, when a loud official knock, not usual on that bleak hill, bespoke the presence of no ordinary personage. Accordingly, the "wicket, opening with a latch," ushered in a messenger clad in the livery of the ancient and loyal corporation of Cork, who announced himself as the bearer of a despatch from the mansion-house to his reverence; and, handing it with that deferential awe which even his masters felt for the incumbent of Watergrasshill, immediately withdrew. The letter ran thus:—

Council Chamber, July 24, 1825.

VERY REVEREND DOCTOR PROUT,

Cork harbours within its walls the illus

trious author of Waverley. On receiving the freedom

of our ancient city, which we presented to him (as usual towards distinguished strangers) in a box carved out of a chip of the Blarney stone, he expressed his determination to visit the old block itself. As he will, therefore, be in your neighbourhood to-morrow, and as no one is better able to do the honours than you (our burgesses being sadly deficient in learning, as you and I well know), your attendance on the celebrated poet is requested by your old friend and foster-brother,

GEORGE KNAPP,* Mayor.

The republic of letters has great reason to complain of Dr. Maginn, for his non-fulfilment of a positive pledge to publish "a great historical work" on the mayors of Cork. Owing to this desideratum in the annals of the empire, I am compelled to bring into notice thus abruptly the most respectable civic worthy that has worn the cocked hat and chain since the days of John Walters, who boldly proclaimed Perkin Warbeck, in the reign of Henry VII., in the market-place of that beautiful city. Knapp's virtues and talents did not, like those of Donna Ines, deserve to be called

"Classic all,

Nor lay they chiefly in the mathematical,"

for his favourite pursuit during the canicule of 1825, was the extermination of mad dogs; and so vigorously did he urge the carnage during the summer of his mayoralty, that some thought he wished to eclipse the exploit of St. Patrick in destroying the breed altogether, as the saint did that of toads. A Cork poet, the laureate of the mansion-house, has celebrated Knapp's prowess in a didactic composition, entitled Dog-killing, a Poem; in which the

Never shall I forget the beam of triumph that lit up the old man's features on the perusal of Knapp's pithy summons; and right warmly did he respond to my congratulations on the prospect of thus coming in contact with so distinguished an author. "You are right, child!" said he; and as I perceived by his manner that he was about to enter on one of those rambling trains of thoughts-half-homily, half-soliloquy-in which he was wont to indulge, I settled myself by the fire-place, and prepared to go through my accustomed part of an attentive listener.

“A great man, Frank! a truly great man! No token of ancient days escapes his eagle glance, no venerable memorial of former times his observant scrutiny; and still, even he, versed as he is in the monumentary remains of bygone ages, may yet learn something more, and have no cause to regret his visit to Blarney. Yes! since our groves' are to be honoured by the presence of the learned baronet,

'Sylvæ sint consule dignæ!'

let us make them deserving of his attention. He shall

mayor is likened to Apollo in the Grecian camp before Troy, in the opening of the Iliad :

Αυταρ βους πρωτον εφ' ωκέτο και κυνας Αργους.

But as you might think it all mere doggrel, I shall omit to quote from it, though it might edify many a magisterial Dogberry, and prove a real mayor's nest.-F. CRESSWELL.