why he's not the man for Galway, and had better keep away from it.
WE witnessed at the railway station, on our arrival at Galway, a most painful and touching scene,—the departure of some emigrants, and their last separation, here on earth, from dear relations and friends. The train was about to start, and the platform was crowded with men, women, and children, pressing round to take a last fond look. Ever and anon, a mother or a sister would force a way into the carriages, flinging her arms around her beloved, only to be separated by a superior strength, and parting from them with such looks of misery as disturbed the soul with pity. And then, for the first time, we heard the wild Irish “cry,” beginning with a low, plaintive wail, and gradually rising in its tone of intense sorrow, until
Nor was this great grief simulated, as by hired keeners at a wake, the mulieres proficae of the Irish Feralia, but came gushing with its waters of bitterness from the full fountain of those loving hearts. There were faces there no actor could assume—faces which would have immortalised the painter who could have traced them truly, but were beyond the compass of art. Two, especially, I shall never forget. A youth of eighteen or nineteen, who had a cheerful word and pleasant smile for all, though you could see the while, in his white cheek and quivering lip, how grief was gnawing his brave Spartan heart (Ah,
and the other, an elderly man, who stood somewhat aloof from the rest, with his arms folded, and his head bent, motionless, speechless, with a face on which despair had written, I shall smile no more until I welcome death!
I thought of those beautiful lines which begin,
and I thought, also, what great hearts beat under coats of frieze, and how bounden we are, with all our might, to avert from them these overwhelming sorrows, or, at the least, and if fall they must, to prove our sympathy as best we can.
Many of the emigrants had bunches of wild flowers and heather, and one of them a shamrock in a broken flowerpot, as memorials of dear ould Ireland. Nor does this fond love of home and kindred decline in a distant land; no less a sum than 7,520,000 L. having been sent from America to Ireland, in the years 1848 to 1854, inclusive, according to the statement of the Emigration Commissioners.
It was a strange recollection during this scene of sorrow, (and how strangely our thoughts will sometimes set themselves at variance with what is passing before us!) that, all the while, the Great Jig was going on at Leenane, and the fiddlers fiddling, and the hundred and fifty couple footing it, right merrily! Well,
And I, accordingly, having sorrowed, and that heartily, with the poor emigrants and their friends, shall venture to refresh myself, and, I hope, my readers, with a small historical incident, suggested to my memory by the wild Irish cry. When Richard de Clare, surnamed Strongbow, invaded Ireland in 1171, one of his sons was so exceedingly astonished at the awful howlings, which the enemy raised, by way of overture to the fight, that he became prematurely “tired of war's alarms,” and set forth without loss of time in search of more peaceful scenes;—colloquially speaking, he cut and run. But hearing, soon afterwards, that the Governor had silenced these disagreeable vocalists, and that the conquerors were having no end of fun, Master Strongbow returned to the bosom of his family—where he must have been inexpressibly surprised and disgusted at the abrupt and ungentlemanly behaviour of Papa, who no sooner caught sight of him, than he rushed at him, and—cut him in two. 1
We left Galway at four p.m., and reached Athlone in a couple of hours. If the Widow Malone, och hone, still lives in the town of Athlone, och hone, I do not admire her choice of residence, for its aspect is cold and cheerless. So at least it appeared, as we saw it, on a day that was dark, and dull, and dreary, with rain. We read in “Wanleys Wonders”(one of the most carefully-collated and painstaking books of lies extant) that the inhabitants of Catona were wont to make their king swear, at his coronation, that it should not rain immoderately, in any part of his dominions, so long as he remained on the throne; and one sighs for a similar dynasty in Ireland, (if the promise was really fulfilled), where that ancient monarch, “King O'Neill, of the Showers,” seems still perpetually to reign.
So the streets were looking their narrowest and dingiest, and the Castle and Barracks their greyest and grimmest, as we saw them from under our umbrellas; and we were glad to return to Mr. Rourke's comfortable hotel, where papered walls and carpeted floors, and practicable windows, and duplicate towels, again welcomed us to the lap of luxury. But I felt little disposition to sit down in it, mourning for Connamara, gazing sadly through the windows of our coffee-room, and esteeming the Post-office opposite but a poor substitute for the great hills of Bina Beola, and the lakes to be very feebly represented by Mr. Pym's establishment for the diffusion of Dublin ales. Nor did sweet solace come, until we beheld once more—a real beef-steak. Frank's eyes, in their normal state of a mild, benevolent blue, glowed with a fiery greed; and I do not suppose that six Van Amburghs could have taken away our food with hot irons.
After dinner we communicated to each other the little we knew with regard to the old town of Athlone:—how that—the Shannon, which flows through it, being here fordable,—it had always been a place of great military importance; how that William III. had, in the first instance, failed to take it,—or rather to receive it, 1 as he would have said, with the exquisite humour, for which he was remarkable,—and lost for a time that amiability of temper, which, according to the historian, 2 was so conspicuous in time of war; how that Ginkel, his General, (why does not history salute him by his more euphonious designation as first Earl of Athlone?) had much better luck next time, to wit, on the 1st of July, 1691, when, differing in opinion with the supercilious Frenchman, St. Ruth, who declared the thing to be impossible, even after it was done, he boldly crossed the river, attacked, and took the place.
Here, feebly murmuring something about “the new bridge, which spans the noble stream, being a handsome structure,” we came to a decided check, Frank making a cast by ringing the bell, and requesting the waiter to “bring in a large dish of startling incidents, connected with the history of Athlone,”—an order, which seemed to amuse three good-looking priests, (en route for a Consecration at Ballinasloe, to be presided over by Cardinal Wiseman), and who were discussing, (and why not?—I'm not the man, at all events, to write and tell the Pope,) a small decanter of whiskey.
The Shannon is a glorious river, broad and deep, and brimming over, extending, from source to sea, a distance of two hundred miles, and “making its waves a blessing as they flow” to ten Irish counties. I should think that hay for the universe might be grown upon its teeming banks, and we saw a goodly quantity studding the fields with those (to us) quaint-looking tumuli, which, like the “hobbledehoy, neither man nor boy,” are too large for haycocks, and too small for stacks. Six miles from Athlone, we pass the Seven Churches of Clonmacnoise, (once, as its name signifies, the Eton of Ireland, “the school of the sons of the nobles,”) by whom despoiled and desecrated we English need not pause to inquire; and close to these a brace of those famous Round Towers, which have so perplexed the archaeological world, and which, according to Frank, were, “most probably Lighthouses, which had come ashore at night for a spree, and had forgotten the way back again.” The scenery, which at first is flat and uninteresting, except to an agricultural eye, increases in attraction, as you progress towards Limerick, and is exceedingly beautiful about Lough Derg. There are delightful residences on either side, of which we admired particularly Portumna, my Lord Clanricarde's 1 and a place called Derry. The view from the upper windows of this latter home must be “a sight to make an old man young.” The mountains, inclosed and cultivated, have a tame unnatural look, as though they had been brought here from Connamara, and been broken to carry corn; and they wear a strange uncomfortable aspect, like some Cherokee Chief in the silk stockings and elegant attire of our Court.
Here and there, in mid-stream, are beacons of an original pattern. The cormorants flew heavily away before us, but the heron moved not from the sighing sedge,—still and grey as the stone on which he stood,—nor seemed to note the seething waters, which swelled around him as the steamer passed.
Ay, and how touchingly that silent bird, with his keen gaze, steadfastly fixed, and his every thought concentrated, upon one object reminded me (if, for a moment, I may assimilate the Queen of my soul to a gudgeon) of myself; for alas, I was again in love! As soon as ever I set foot on the steamer, I knew it was all over, though she was a long way off.
“It would have been well,” writes Mr. Froude, “for Henry VIII. if he could have lived in a world, in which women could have been dispensed with;” and it would be better no doubt for the susceptible tourist, if there were fewer pretty girls in Ireland. In vain, I groaned
for she wouldn't parce at any price; and by the time we arrived at Clonmacnoise, I was in a state of most abject infatuation. Frank proposed to bleed me with a large fishing-knife, and would keep feeling my pulse, with his watch in his hand, in an exceedingly frivolous manner. But I suffered severely, in spite of frequent beer, until a late period of the evening, when my wounded spirit, in the smoke-room at Limerick, at last found relief in song.
“He'll forget her to-morrow morning,” said Frank to his neighbour, in a pretended whisper, which all could hear, “and it's better so, poor fellow, for the girl's ridiculously fond of me, and I've got no end of her hair in my pocket.”
Of course, there were plenty of fools to giggle; but I never could see any wit in lies. I am quite positive, that, when we parted, she returned my regretful gaze, and
UNDOUBTEDLY, there is solace for the forlorn in the pleasant city of Limerick. Justly celebrated for its Hooks, it is far more to be admired for its Eyes, for, although the former are the best in all the world, the latter are much more killing! No sooner did we emerge from Mr. Cruise's very excellent and extensive hotel, than we were attacked and surrounded by the lace-girls, in their blue cloaks, drooping gracefully, with heads uncovered, or rather most becomingly covered with thick and glossy hair. At first, we recklessly resolved to cut a way through with our umbrellas, or perish in the attempt, but the utter hopelessness of such a fearful step induced us finally to capitulate, the Siege of Limerick was raised, and commercial relations peacefully established between the besiegers and besieged. I did just venture to inquire what use I could possibly make of four superficial inches of fine linen, surrounded by very delicate openwork, not less than a foot in width, and was immediately answered, “And shure, yer honner'll be for buying the handkercher, to dry up the tares of the swate young lady, as is waping for ye over the says.”
We would have it, of course, and the “splendid pair o' slaves,” and a miscellaneous assortment, which created an immense sensation on our return home, and were declared to be both pretty and cheap; for, “when maidens sue, men give like gods,” or geese, as the case may be; and such winning looks of tender entreaty came from under those long dark eye-lashes, that I really believe their owners could have persuaded us to purchase a complete collection of poisonous reptiles, or a copy of “The Converted Bargee.” They were not so successful with a morose old gentleman, who could see no beauty in their “darlint collars;” and they quite failed in an attempt, evidently persisted in for their own amusement, to dispose of some beautiful little babies'-caps, to a waspish old girl of sixty-five!
Limerick is divided into three parts, the Irish town, the English town, and Newtown Perry (so called after Mr. Sexton Perry, who commenced it); and these are connected by bridges, of which the old Thomond, hard by King Johns Castle, and the new Wellesley, said to have cost 85,000 L., are interesting. The eccentricities of the workmen must have added materially to the costliness of the latter structure, inasmuch as they seem to have been Odd Fellows as well as very Free Masons, who, instead of cementing stones and friendships, only turned the former into stumbling blocks for the latter, by throwing them at each other's heads. Every day an animated faction-fight, between the boys of Clare and the boys of Limerick, was got up (instead of the bridge), until at length it was found necessary to bring out an armed force, to keep order on this Pons Asinorum.
The main street of Newtown Perry, in which is Cruise's Hotel, is a long and handsome one; and what's more, you may buy some good cigars in it, a rare refreshment in Ireland.
We went to see the Cathedral (partly out of compliment to the memory of good Bishop Jebb); but its iron gates were scrupulously locked. Perhaps, had they been open, we should not have ventured within, for the building had a grim, uninviting look, and seemed as though it despised us thoroughly for daring to come when it wasn't service-time. I should not have been at all surprised, if “a variety of humbugs in cocked-hats” had sallied forth to disperse us.
One of the lace-girls, for they had followed us, with reduced prices and a fresh supply of their pretty work, told us, as we turned from the gate, that “during the grate sage o' Limerick there was a mighty big gun on the top of that church, that kept firing away, day and night.” Whereupon Frank said, that the interesting fact was highly creditable to the Dean and Chapter, who generally deputed any hard work to one of the minor canons.
In which of the sieges did the great gun thunder? Was it that of 1651, when Ireton (whose character one never can identify with that beautiful portrait engraved by Houbraken, for how could such a noble presence belong to a man “melancholick and reserved,” 1 and so wanting in personal courage, as to allow Mr. Holies to pull him by the nose? 2) died before the walls from the plague? Or did it some forty years later send forth its sulphurous and tormenting flames, against “bould Giniral Ginkil,” and help to expedite that Famous Treaty of Limerick, honourable alike to all?
We did not see nor hear anything of the great Pig-Factory, whereat one million porkers are said to be annually slain. A stern Hebrew, of a truculent taste, might possibly venture to settle in the vicinity; but the music must be too high by several octaves for Christians of the ordinary stamp.
I wonder whether the lady still lives in Limerick, who had the passage of arms, or rather of legs, with General Sir Charles Napier. Being, in the complimentary diction of her friends, “a remarkably fine woman,” or, in the vulgar verbiage of irreverent youth “a regular slogger,” she was wont to despise those of her fellow-creatures, who did not weigh sixteen stone; and when the little soldier broke his leg, she remarked contemptuously, “that she supposed some fly had kicked his poor spindle-shanks!” It so happened that, just as he recovered, the large lady met with a similar accident, breaking her leg. Napier was at no loss to improve the occasion. “Going to her house,” he says, “I told the servant, how sorry I was to hear that a bullock had kicked his mistress, and injured its leg very much; and that I had called, in consequence, to inquire whether her leg was at all hurt!”
We left Limerick for Killarney by the mail train, at 11.30 a.m., entering the main line of the Great Southern and Western Railway after an hour's travelling, progressing thereon as far as Mallow (the town upon the banks of the Blackwater, with its church, and trees, and picturesque bridge, is a sweet little “study,” and looked as though the sun shone there always); and thence by a branch line to Killarney, which we reached at 4 p.m. We passed through a country (including part of the Golden Vale of Limerick 1) varied, fertile, and well-cultivated, although two young officers (who looked at us, when we entered their carriage at Mallow, as though I were at the crisis of small-pox, and my friend a ticket-of-leave man) declared, as they woke up just opposite an embankment, that the scenery was “beastly plain.”
THERE are words which, although unnoticed in the delightful treatises of the Dean of Westminster 1 (may his fame increase!) have a strange power upon the heart,—words which can ring for us, listening by the brookside, and in arbours and meadow-haunts once more, the joy-bells of a former mirth, or toll above past sorrows and buried hopes their muffled and mournful peal. Breathes there, for instance, a man with soul so dead, who can hear of a primrose bank, or a cowslip-ball, or a roly-poly pudding, or a sillabub, or a soap bubble, or a pantomime, or of Robinson Crusoe, and not feel himself, though it be but for a moment, a happy child again? And do we not realise, on the other hand, in all their brief intensity, our earliest sorrows, when memory suggests to us those solemn sounds of woe, measles, big-brother, ghosts, dentists, castor-oil?
And who (to pass on to boyhood) can ever hear of foot-ball, especially if Tom Brown speak, without longing for a kick to goal? Who can be reminded of the river, and not remember those summer days, when, nude and jubilant, we took first a preliminary canter among the haycocks, and then “a header” into the deep, cold stream? or, again, those merry days of winter, when, from our slippery skates we took—well, anything but “a header” upon its glibly frozen surface? On the other hand, who does not felicitate himself that he has arrived at man's estate, when he recalls those awful impositions which he still believes have softened his brain, or when his memory (not to particularise) is tingling at the idea of birch, and contemplating a “Visitation of Arms and Seats” long anterior to Mr. Bernard Burke's?
Chiefly, perhaps, when we come to shave, or, more wisely, to cherish instead of destroying (with many a grimace and groan), those healthful adjuncts to manly beauty, “quas Natura sud sponte suggerit” is felt this great influence of words. I have seen the cheek of a pallid friend suddenly to assume the hues of a peony, the rich crimson tint of dining-room curtains, at mention of the name of “Rose;” and I remember how a Brasenose man, whose fresh ruddy countenance was much more suggestive of Burton-upon-Trent than it was of Burton upon Melancholy, and whom we called Chief Mourner, because he was always first after the bier, would become colourless, and “pale his ineffectual fire,” at the very sound of Blanche. Nor do I see any discredit in confessing my own inability to hear certain sweet Christian-Names (sixteen in all, but nine in particular), without emotions of a troublous, but delightful, character.
And as at this era, just as in the two preceding it, there are special words which bring joy and animation to man (let me briefly instance gone-away, mark-woodcock, sillery, deux-temps), so there are terms of terror (e.g. jilt, tailor, Little-Go, lurit-server, poacher, vulpicide), of potent and cruel import.
I might amplify for my readers this etymological treat. I might expatiate on the different effects produced by. the same word upon different minds, videlicet, by the word Tally-ho, as heard at the covert-side by sportsman or by muff, by the man who rides with hounds, or the skirting path-finder who rides without them; but I have already travelled by a too circuitous route to my conclusion,—that it is sweet to hear the mere names of those things, which are pleasant and lovable in themselves, and that to those who have seen the Irish lakes, the word Killarney is “a joy for ever.”
Coming so immediately from the wild grandeur of Connamara to these scenes of tranquil beauty, I think that our first view of the Lakes, as we left the Victoria Hotel, was rather a disappointment. The landscape (or waterscape?) was so calm and still, that it had somewhat of a dioramic effect, and one almost expected to see it move slowly onwards to an accompaniment of organ music. But as the olive lends a zest to generous wine, even so this tiny discontentment served but to enhance our subsequent and full fruition. For, once upon the waters, you become forthwith convinced, not only how impossible it is to exaggerate the beauties of Killarney (as well might a painter essay to flatter or improve a sunset), but for pen or pencil to do them justice.
There is such infinite variety, from the white and golden lilies, (which, close to land, look like miniature canoes, from which fairy watermen have just sprung lightly ashore), to the towering heights and aeries; such diversity of tint and outline in the mountains, tree-clothed from crown to base; in those “islets so freshly fair;” and in those dancing waters, which raise their smiling waves to kiss the flowers and ferns; such contrasts, and yet such a perfect whole, of wood and water, “harmoniously confused;” such transformations, wrought by cloud and breeze, yet always such complete repose; that the eye can never weary.
We hired a boat, and set forth for Innisfallen, just at that delightful time between sunset and moonrise,
Presently, the moon came up above those lofty hills, 1 and as bugle music from the returning boats was wafted over the shining waters, and lost itself among the mountains, we turned to each other, Frank and I, at the same moment, with those thrilling lines,
Indeed, you would suppose that Tennyson must have written this heart-stirring song at Killarney, did not the engraving prefixed to it, represent so different and dismally inferior a scene. To look and listen, as we rowed slowly onwards, seemed to be more happiness than we, undeserving, could at once enjoy; and it required a contemplation of meaner things, to convince us that the whole scene was not, in the words of Ireland's poet, writing at Killarney, and of it,—
So we lit our pipes, and then the boatmen, whose colloquial powers we generally evoked, as we tendered the calumet, or rather the tobacco-pouch, of friendship, began to tell us, how, once upon a time, it was all dry land about here; how some indiscreet, but anonymous individual had removed the lid from an enchanted well; and how the enchanted well had set to work, in consequence, and had flooded the valley in which stood the palace of King O'Donoghue, so suddenly, that a facetious sentinel had only just time to shout “All's Well!” at the top of his voice, when the waters, rising above his chin, and entering his vocal orifice, put a stop to further elocution.
It does not appear, as ordinary minds might have expected, that the prospects or spirits of the Donoghue were at all damped by this proceeding; and though his property seemed to be hopelessly “dipped,” and his capital to be sunk beyond all recovery, he contrived not only to get his head above water, but even to ride the high horse afterwards. For the boatmen say, that the royal edifice still remains, with all its inmates, unaltered and unalterable, at the bottom of the lake, and there the king entertains his court, with fish-dinners and aquatic fêtes on an unprecedented scale of magnificence, save when requiring air and exercise, he rides over the waters on a snowy steed, and turns the whole locality into an Irish “Vale of White Horse.”
“And there's plinty as has seen him, your 'onnour,” (so said the bow-oar historian), “and will take their swear of it—glowry to God!” Very little glowry, thought I, from the perjury of these delectable witnesses, who must have seen this quaint display of horsemanship through a “summer haze” of whiskey, and been very deliriously drunk. But our boat touches Innisfallen.
Everyone falls in love with this sweet little island. It has such grand, old, giant trees, such charming glades and undulations, “green and of mild declivity,” that here, childhood might play, manhood make love, and old age meditate, unwearied, from morn to night. Mr. Grieve would, in spite of his name, be joyful, to wander through its vistas and alleys green, and find fresh scenes for his canvas. What dear little glens, what “banks and braes” for the fairies. Can this be Titania coming towards us over the moonlit sward, and leaning upon the arm of Oberon? No; it is a couple of nuptial neophytes, looking so happy, that, as they pass, I could take off my hat and cheer. Ah, if fair lnnisfallen is so beautiful to us poor bachelors by ordinary moonlight, what must it be to Benedict, to the man in the moon of honey? What must be the happiness of my Lord Castlerosse, the eldest son of the Lord of the Isles of Killarney, who has just brought home his bride? 1
Were I ever constrained to be a monk and celibate, I should wish my monastery to be at lnnisfallen, and I admire the taste of St. Finian (an ancestor, I presume, of Mr. Finn, our estimable host at the Victoria Hotel), who, some thirteen hundred years ago, selected this island for his retreat. The picturesque ruins of an ancient abbey still attest, that long after his time, men sought, in this sylvan solitude, that peace which they found not in the world.
Sweet Innisfallen! “thy praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine,” so lofty indeed, that my obtuse understanding is unable to read some of their music, as, for instance, where Moore sings,
And, therefore, in plain prose, but with a full heart, Good night!
A car and guide, as per order, were waiting for us, when we had breakfasted next morning, and we set forth for the Gap of Dunloe. Entering upon the main road, we seemed to be in a drying-ground of immense proportions, with its perpetual posts and endless clothes-lines, extending along the wayside for miles. But it proved to be a continuation of that faithless messenger, the Atlantic telegraph, on its way between Valencia and the rail. Passing the ruins of Aghadoe, church, castle, and tower, and shortly afterwards those of Killaloe, we cross the river Latme, over a charming old bridge, and get views of the great Tomies Mountain, and also of Macgillicuddy's Reeks. Miles, our guide, a most intelligent and civil one, here told us the story, or rather one of the stories, concerning the latter mountains.
It seems that Mr. Macgillicuddy, a gentleman of extensive estates in this neighbourhood, went to visit some friends in England, and took with him an Irish servant, more prone to patriotism than truth. Whatever he saw among the Saxons was just nothing at all, at all, to what might be seen in Ireland. In short, he would have been a most appropriate attendant upon that Hibernian, who, being asked why he wept at sight of Greenwich Hospital, replied with sorrowful emotion, “Ah, sure, the buildings there remind me of mee dear father's stables!”
Now it befel that the English gentleman, possessing a large extent of rich meadow land, took especial delight in his hay-stacks, and his valet, sympathising with his master's vanity (as all good valets should), soon led the Irishman to look at the stack-yard, expecting to see him mightily astonished; but Paddy, having gazed around with the most sublime indifference, coolly said, “It's a nice bit o' grass you've brought home here for present use; now let us have a peep at the ricks.”
“Ricks!” exclaimed the Englishman, “why these be they.”
“Well, then,” says Paddy, “I'll just tell ye: there's about enough hay in this stack-yard to make the bands for thatching my master's ricks. Happen” (this he added as though he wished to be liberal, and to pay his companion a compliment), “there might be a couple of yards or so to spare.”
You may imagine that when, in the following year, the English valet came with his master to return the visit at Killarney, he was not long before he requested his Irish friend to favour him with a view of the haystacks. To be sure he would, with all the pleasure in life, and sorry he was to be prevented by circumstances (over which, he might have added, he had every control) from making the inspection before evening. Accordingly, in the dusk and gloom of twilight, he took the Englishman forth, and showed him, dim in the distance, this lofty mountain range. “There are our ricks,” said he.
In that belief the astonished stranger slept; and ever since that time men call these hills Macgillicuddy s Reeks!
Mr. Miles, in the next place, made our fingers to itch, eyes to strain, and mouths to water, as he told of red deer among the mountains, and of woodcocks in their season, twenty couple to be bagged per diem. Thus conversing, we drew near to the Gap, and to the cottage of Mrs. Moriarty, née Kearney, and grand-daughter of the beautiful Kate. But it is by no means a case of
and we did not hesitate to decline the proffered draught of goat's milk and whiskey, although we implicitly believed Mrs. M.'s assertion, that, if we drank it, we should want nothing more throughout the remainder of the day.
Here, too, we overtook a car from Tralee, laden with pretty girls and a few young men (how we hated the latter for being in such high spirits, thought them vulgar snobs when they laughed, and coarsely familiar whenever they spoke!)—not from any rapidity of pace on our part, but because the Tralee horses judiciously jibbed at anything like a rise in the road; and then off jumped the pretty girls, like doves from eave to earth, but being, in their peculiar grace and pleasant coo, immeasurably superior to pigeons.
At the entrance to the Gap, the scene was a most lively and attractive one. Here the cars are sent back, as the journey through the Pass must be made on ponies or afoot, and there was quite a merry little congress of visitors, guides, cars, and steeds. At length, the procession started, and a very picturesque one,—voici!
The Gap of Dunloe is a wild ravine, a defile through the mountains (on the right are the Reeks, and on the left the Tomies, Glena, and the Purple Mountain), which, rising on either side, dark, stern, and sterile, with no great interval between, impart a solemn grandeur to the Pass. The river Loe flows beneath the huge blocks of stone which have fallen from the rocks above—heard, but not seen, except in the small lakes which occur at intervals, and which, still and gloomy, add much to this impressive scene. One of these is called the Serpent's Lake, because St. Patrick, having caught the last snake in Ireland, put it into a big box (for reasons best known to himself), and flung it into this pool.
The most striking thing we saw as we went through the Gap were some snow-white goats on the lofty summit of the Purple Mountain; for the latter really is of a distinct purple tint (not from heather, but from the colour of the stone); and the contrast in the sunlight was very beautiful.
Frank insisted upon seeing an eagle, and continually pointed to the precipices above, believing that he descried the king of birds. Miles did condescend to say that one of the objects to which Frank drew our attention was not so very unlike at a distance, but that the resemblance was lost as you approached the reality—a piece of rock not less than twenty feet high. At last we actually beheld a very large bird soaring towards us with considerable dignity. Frank was delighted; and when Miles uttered the dissyllable “raven,” I certainly thought he would have hit him. There are eagles in this neighbourhood beyond a doubt (though Frank surveyed it with an incredulous and sarcastic air); but they are not very likely to be much at home when bugles are playing and cannons roaring from morn to dewy eve.
Emerging from the Gap, we were “to save a mile, and see the best of the scenery,” and to effect this, we were taken over a country, which is, I dare say, a pleasant one for Mrs. Moriarty's goats, but to bipeds in boots (and one must be neat, you know, with so many pretty girls about), is by no means of an agreeable character. To derive consolation from the calamities of others is humiliating, but natural; “il y a toujours quelque chose,” says the French cynic, “qui nous ne déplait point dans les malheurs d'autrui;” and I found, I am ashamed to say, considerable refreshment in surveying the distress of a portly old gentleman, who, impinging a good deal on the craggiest parts, “larded the lean earth as he walked along,”
I saw from the knolls and undulations, which diversified the surface of his enormous shoes, that his Pilgrims Progress had a good deal to do with Bunyan's, although his adjurations were not of that pious kind, which would have issued from the lips of the “preaching tinker,” and the deities, to whom he referred in his affliction, were, principally, Zounds and Jingo.
But we soon found a truer solace in the view of Coom Dhuv, the Black Valley, and in listening to the roar of its mountain streams, which, rising and falling upon the breeze, sounded as though some monster train bore giants over the hills, at express speed, with Gog and Magog for Guard and Stoker!
Lo! the dark valley darkens, and its foaming waterfalls seem to whiten beneath the low black clouds; and we stay not to visit the Logan Stone, which a child may move, but nothing under an earthquake could dislodge; but hasten, by Lord Brandons Cottage, to the Upper Lake, where, a boat awaiting us, we embark for Roknaines Island.
Here, before a glowing fire, a fresh-caught salmon, cut into steaks, was broiling on arbutus skivers; and the founder of the feast, an Irish gentleman, whom we brought from the shore in our boat, hospitably invited us to postpone our luncheon until his guests arrived. Hungry, and anxious to proceed, we declined his courteous offer; but we should not have done so, had we been aware that he was awaiting the delightful party from Tralee. Alas, just as we had commenced our repast, and the boat so preciously freighted was descried in the distance, our pluvial fears were realised,
It was piteous to see those girls come ashore, with the gentlemen's overcoats enveloping their fairy forms, and protecting their best bonnets; and I never experienced so strong a desire in my life to be transformed into a gig-umbrella.
Suddenly the weather brightened, but not so the prospects of the pretty pic-nic. There was a brief colloquy between master and men, sounds of surprise and disappointment, not loud but deep, and then a general laughter, but dismally artificial; for the knives, and the plates, and the wine, and the bread, everything, in fact, except the salmon, just ready in its hot perfection, had been sent to the wrong Island!