There is an exception, a strange one it is– in the surrounding desolation– an oasis– the hacknied simile was never more apposite– in the desert. This oasis is Blarney. In Blarney not a single death has occurred from starvation, nor from fever– it is perfectly free. –Dublin Evening Post.
[We are not surprised, in the general decay of nature, that the most vigorous element should still survive, and Blarney be flourishing in Ireland. Yet we apprehend that there is a tangible cause creating this “greenest spot in misery’s waste.” The feudal ruin, so famous in song, had been untenanted early in this century; but twenty years ago a wool spinning factory was established in the village by the Messrs. Mahoney of Cork, and some hundred children have ever since been paid money wages regularly in that neighbourhood. Hence habits of industry, hence an independent feeling, hence foresight and economy.
These unassuming benefactors of the locality are your true patriots, and more wanted in Ireland than a thousand brawlers. We believe they are the brothers of the gentleman whose renown in our literature is Proutean. –Morning Chronicle.].