It has been a general and certainly a well-founded complaint against
Ireland, that the arts, whose influence has extended so much over England
and Scotland during the last half century, have made but little progress
in “the Emerald Isle.” It “has sent forth painters, but encouraged none.”
This I fear is true, though lately I have been delighted to observe some
very happy exceptions to the rule.
There are many reasons why art and artists have not flourished in
Ireland. The greater number of those who have the means to patronise
talent are absentees, spending in foreign lands the produce of the riches
bestowed by the Almighty on their own--while the minds of the residents
are usually so pre-occupied by religious or political controversies,
that they have no time to bestow, or attention to give to anything
else. Another reason I would urge, even at the hazard of being charged
with national pride, is, the country so overflows with natural beauty,
that in the matter of landscape painting the Irish gentry are hard to
please. To those who doubt this, I would simply say, come and see; and
if any English artist does not discover good cause why they should be
fastidious, all I can observe is, that I shall be very much astonished.
Even the highways are crowded with antiquarian and picturesque beauty;
but road-makers do not seek these so much as convenience; nor are the
most-talked-of places those where a “landskipper,” as I heard an artist
called in Kerry, will reap the richest harvest.
There are hills and lakes, rivers and glades, of most exquisite beauty,
profusely scattered over the country--far away from the highroads, in the
fastnesses of the mountains--and even within hearing of the roar of the
wild ocean are dells and little valleys, cascades, lawns of greenest hue
and softest grass, where Druids’ altars hang upon their mysterious points
of rest, and the breeze whispers amid mouldering towers--memorials of
the troubled past. Still, eyes accustomed from their opening to really
fine scenery are not likely to be satisfied with aught that falls short
of perfection; and, as I have said, I find such of my countrymen as
really love art very hard to please in landscape, particularly in Irish
landscape: they have become familiar with the same scenes from many
points of view--the artist can only record one, and it is at least likely
that _the_ one he has chosen is not the favourite.
Still, I fear, the _chief_ cause why art has not flourished hitherto,
must be attributed to the continued excitement of religion and politics;
to judge from collateral evidence, the influence of this excitement
is happily on the decrease, for I have seen framed prints in several
cottages, and observed in many dwellings, where paintings would be an
extravagance, volumes of beautiful engravings displayed as the chief
treasures of their country homes.
On our late pilgrimage through the beautiful and romantic “Kingdom of
Kerry” we encountered a native artist, who beguiled us of an hour,
and interested us deeply. We had lingered long in the beautiful vale
of Glengariff, and still longer on the mountain road which commands
a view of the magic bay and its golden islands, that seem lifted by
earth towards heaven as a peace-offering; and when we passed through
the tunnel, which is still regarded by the mountaineers with evident
astonishment, the sun was sinking behind the huge range of Kerry
mountains, which looked the more bleak when contrasted with the memory
of the exceeding fertility of Glengariff. We were then literally _amid_
both clouds and mountains, and the only sound that disturbed the awful
stillness of the scene was the scream of an eagle, which issued from
behind a tower-like assemblage of barren rocks, where most probably
the eyrie of the royal bird was placed; the sound added greatly to the
effect of the scenery, and we drew up that we might listen to it more
attentively; it was several times repeated, and almost at the same
instant a fresh breeze dispersed the mists which had in some degree
obscured the glory of the departing sun; and the valley beneath the
pass became literally illuminated wherever the breaks or fissures in
the opposite mountains permitted the brightness of the sun, as it were,
to pass through. I had never seen such an effect of light and shade
before, for the mountain shadows were heavy as night itself; I feel I
cannot describe either the brightness of the one or the intenseness of
the other. I am sure the scene could not be painted so as to convey any
idea of its reality. Any attempt to depict the extravagance of nature is
always deemed unnatural.
We are weak enough to bound the Almighty’s works by what has come within
the sphere of our own finite observations. How paltry this must seem to
those who dwell amongst the mountains, and read the book of ever varying
nature amid the silent places of the earth!
I had been gazing so earnestly upon the scene below and around us, that I
had not noted the sudden appearance of a lad upon a bank, a little to the
left of the place on which we stood; but my attention was attracted by
his clasping his hands together, and laughing, or rather shouting loudly,
in evident delight at the scene. There was nothing in his appearance
different from that of many young goatherds we had passed, and who
hardly raised their heads from the purple heath to gaze at our progress.
His sun-burnt limbs were bare below the knee; but his long brown hair
had been cared for, and flowed beneath a wide-leafed hat, which was
garnished, not untastefully, with a couple of wreaths of spreading fern.
His garments were in sufficient disorder to satisfy the most enthusiastic
admirer of “the picturesque;” and although we called to him repeatedly,
it was not until a sudden diffusion of cloud had interfered between him
and the sunset, so as to diminish the light, and of course lessen the
effect of the shadows, that he noticed us in the least; indeed, I do not
think he would have done so at all, but for the unexpected appearance of
another “child of the mist,” in the person of a little _tangled-looking_,
bright-eyed girl--literally one mass of tatters--who sprang to where the
boy stood, and seizing his hand, pointed silently to us. He descended
immediately, followed by the little girl, and after removing his hat,
stood by the side of our carriage, into which he peered with genuine
Irish curiosity.
To our question of “Where do you live?” the mountain maid replied, “Neen
English,” which experience had previously taught us signified that she
did not understand our language. We then addressed ourselves to the boy,
when the girl placed her hands on her lips, then to her ears, and finally
shook her head. “Deaf and dumb?” I said. Upon which she replied, “Ay, ay,
deaf, dumb--deaf, dumb.” The little creature having so said, regarded him
with one of those quick looks so eloquent of infant love; and seizing
his hand, lifted up her rosy face to be kissed. He patted her head
impatiently, but was too occupied examining the contents of our carriage
to heed her affectionate request. His eye glanced over our packages
without much interest, until they rested upon a small black portfolio,
and then he leaped, and clapped his hands, making us understand he wanted
to inspect _that_. His little companion had evidently some idea that
this was an intrusion, and intimated so to the boy; but he pushed her
from him, determined, with true masculine spirit, to have his own way.
Nothing could exceed his delight while turning over a few sketches and
some engravings. He gave us clearly to understand that he comprehended
their intent--looking from our puny outlines to the magnificent mountains
by which we were surrounded, and smiling thereat in a way that even
our self-love could not construe into a compliment; he evinced more
satisfaction at a sketch of Glengariff, pointed towards the district,
and intimated that he knew it well; but his decided preference was given
to sundry most exquisite drawings, from the pencil of Mr Nicoll, of the
ruins of Aghadoe, Mucross Abbey, and a passage in the gap of Dunloe. I
never understood before the power of “mute eloquence.” I am sure the boy
would have knelt before the objects of his idolatry until every gleam of
light had faded from the sky, if he had been permitted so to do.
Nor was his enthusiasm less extraordinary than the purity of his taste;
for he turned over several coloured engravings, brilliant though they
were, of ladies’ costumes, after a mere glance at each, while he returned
again and again to the drawings that were really worthy of attention.
While he was thus occupied, his little companion, struck by some sudden
thought, bounded up the almost perpendicular mountain with the grace
and agility of a true-born Kerry maiden, until she disappeared; but she
soon returned, springing from rock to rock, and holding the remnants of
her tattered apron together with evident care. When she descended, she
displayed its contents, which interested us greatly, for they were her
brother’s sketches, five or six in number, made on the torn-out leaves
of an old copy-book in pale ink, or with a still paler pencil. Two were
tinged with colour extracted from plants that grew upon the mountain; and
though rude, there were evidences of a talent the more rare, when the
circumstances attendant upon its birth were taken into consideration. The
lad could have had no instruction--he had never been to school, though
schools, thank God! are now to be found in the fastnesses of Kerry--the
copy-book was the property of his eldest brother, and he had abducted the
leaves to record upon them his silent observations of the magnificence
of Nature, whose power had elevated and instructed his mind, closed
as it was by the misfortune of being born deaf and dumb, against such
knowledge as he could acquire in so wild a district. We should not have
read even this line of his simple history, but for the opportune passing
of a “Kerry dragoon”--a wild, brigand-looking young fellow, mounted
between his market-panniers on his rough pony--who proved to be the lad’s
brother, although he did not at first tell us so.
“We all,” he said, “live high up in de mountain; but I can’t trust Mogue
to look after de goats by himself. His whole delight is puttin’ down upon
a bit of paper or a slate whatever he sees. I’d ha’ broke him off it long
agone; but he was his mother’s darlin’, and she’s wid de blessed Vargin
these seven years, so I don’t like to cross his fancy; besides, de Lord’s
hand has been heavy on him already, and it does no harm, no more than
himself, except when any of de childre brake what he do be doing; den
he goes mad intirely, and strays I dunna where; though, to be sure, de
Almighty has his eye over him, for he’s sure to come back well and quiet.”
The lad at last closed our portfolio with a heavy sigh, and did not
perceive until he had done so that his little sister had spread out his
own productions on the heather which grew so abundantly by the road-side.
He pointed to them with something of the exaltation of spirit which
is so natural to us all when we think our exertions are about to be
appreciated, and he bent over them as a mother would over a cherished
child. His triumph, however, was but momentary--it was evident that his
having seen better things rendered him discontented with his own, for
while gathering them hastily together, he burst into tears.
Poor mountain boy! I do not think his tears were excited by envy, for he
returned to our folio in a few moments with the same delight as before;
but his feelings were the more intense because he could not express them;
and he had been taught his inferiority, a bitter lesson, the remembrance
of which nothing but hope, all-glorious hope, that manifestation of
immortality, can efface.
We gave him some paper and pencils, together with a few engravings,
and had soon looked our last at Mogue Murphy, as he stood, his little
sister clinging to his side, waving his hat on a promontory, while we
were rapidly descending into the valley. I thought the memory of such a
meeting in the mountains was worthy of preservation.