'Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.'
William Allingham.
Mrs. Mullarkey cannot spoil this paradise for us. When I wake in the
morning, the fuchsia-tree outside my window is such a glorious mass of
colour that it distracts my eyes from the unwashed glass. The air is
still; the mountains in the far distance are clear purple; everything
is fresh washed and purified for the new day. Francesca and I leave the
house sleeping, and make our way to the bogs. We love to sit under a
blossoming sloe-bush and see the silver pools glistening here and there
in the turf cuttings, and watch the transparent vapour rising from the
red-brown of the purple-shadowed bog fields. Dinnis Rooney, half awake,
leisurely, silent, is moving among the stacks with his creel. How the
missel thrushes sing in the woods, and the plaintive note of the curlew
gives the last touch of mysterious tenderness to the scene. There is a
moist, rich fragrance of meadowsweet and bog myrtle in the air; and how
fresh and wild and verdant it is!
'For there's plenty to mind, sure, if on'y ye look to the grass
at your feet,
For 'tis thick wid the tussocks of heather, an' blossoms and
herbs that smell sweet
If ye tread thim; an' maybe the white o' the bog-cotton waves
in the win',
Like the wool ye might shear off a night-moth, an' set an ould
fairy to spin;
Or wee frauns, each wan stuck 'twixt two leaves on a grand
little stem of its own,
Lettin' on 'twas a plum on a tree.' [*]
* Jane Barlow.
As for Lough Lein itself, who could speak its loveliness, lying like a
crystal mirror beneath the black Reeks of the McGillicuddy, where, in
the mountain fastnesses, lie spell-bound the sleeping warriors who, with
their bridles and broadswords in hand, await but the word to give Erin
her own! When we glide along the surface of the lakes, on some bright
day after a heavy rain; when we look down through the clear water on
tiny submerged islets, with their grasses and drowned daisies glancing
up at us from the blue; when we moor the boat and climb the hillsides,
we are dazzled by the luxuriant beauty of it all. It hardly seems
real--it is too green, too perfect, to be believed; and one thinks of
some fairy drop-scene, painted by cunning-fingered elves and sprites,
who might have a wee folk's way of mixing roses and rainbows,
dew-drenched greens and sun-warmed yellows; showing the picture to you
first all burnished, glittering and radiant, then 'veiled in mist and
diamonded with showers.' We climb, climb, up, up, into the heart of the
leafy loveliness; peering down into dewy dingles, stopping now and again
to watch one of the countless streams as it tinkles and gurgles down
an emerald ravine to join the lakes. The way is strewn with lichens and
mosses; rich green hollies and arbutus surround us on every side;
the ivy hangs in sweet disorder from the rocks; and when we reach the
innermost recess of the glen we can find moist green jungles of ferns
and bracken, a very bending, curling forest of fronds:--
'The fairy's tall palm-tree, the heath bird's fresh nest,
And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best.'
Carrantual rears its crested head high above the other mountains, and on
its summit Shon the Outlaw, footsore, weary, slept; sighing, “For once,
thank God, I am above all my enemies.”
You must go to sweet Innisfallen, too, and you must not be prosaic or
incredulous at the boatman's stories, or turn the 'bodthered ear to
them.' These are no ordinary hillsides: not only do the wee folk troop
through the frond forests nightly, but great heroic figures of romance
have stalked majestically along these mountain summits. Every waterfall
foaming and dashing from its rocky bed in the glen has a legend in the
toss and swirl of the water.
Can't you see the O'Sullivan, famous for fleetness of foot and prowess
in the chase, starting forth in the cool o' the morn to hunt the red
deer? His dogs sniff the heather; a splendid stag bounds across the
path; swift as lightning the dogs follow the scent across moors and
glens. Throughout the long day the chieftain chases the stag, until at
nightfall, weary and thirsty, he loses the scent, and blows a blast on
his horn to call the dogs homeward.
And then he hears a voice: “O'Sullivan, turn back!”
He looks over his shoulder to behold the great Finn McCool, central
figure in centuries of romance.
“Why do you dare chase my stag?” he asks.
“Because it is the finest man ever saw,” answers the chieftain
composedly.
“You are a valiant man,” says the hero, pleased with the reply; “and
as you thirst from the long chase, I will give you to drink.” So he
crunches his giant heel into the rock, and forth burst the waters,
seething and roaring as they do to this day; “and may the divil fly away
wid me if I've spoke an unthrue word, ma'am!”
Come to Lough Lein as did we, too early for the crowd of sightseers; but
when the 'long light shakes across the lakes,' the blackest arts of the
tourist (and they are as black as they are many) cannot break the spell.
Sitting on one of these hillsides, we heard a bugle-call taken up and
repeated in delicate, ethereal echoes,--sweet enough, indeed, to be
worthy of the fairy buglers who are supposed to pass the sound along
their lines from crag to crag, until it faints and dies in silence. And
then came the 'Lament for Owen Roe O'Neil.' We were thrilled to the
very heart with the sorrowful strains; and when we issued from our leafy
covert, and rounded the point of rocks from which the sound came,
we found a fat man in uniform playing the bugle. 'Blank's Tours' was
embroidered on his cap, and I have no doubt that he is a good husband
and father, even a good citizen, but he is a blight upon the landscape,
and fancy cannot breathe in his presence. The typical tourist should be
encouraged within bounds, both because he is of some benefit to Ireland,
and because Ireland is of inestimable benefit to him; but he should
not be allowed to jeer and laugh at the legends (the gentle smile of
sophisticated unbelief, with its twinkle of amusement, is unknown to and
for ever beyond him); and above all, he should never be allowed to carry
or to play on a concertina, for this is the unpardonable sin.
We had an adventure yesterday. We were to dine at eight o'clock at
Balkilly Castle, where Dr. La Touche is staying the week-end with Lord
and Lady Killbally. We had been spending an hour or two after tea in
writing an Irish letter, and were a bit late in dressing. These letters,
written in the vernacular, are a favourite diversion of ours when
visiting in foreign lands; and they are very easily done when once you
have caught the idioms, for you can always supplement your slender store
of words and expressions with choice selections from native authors.
What Francesca and I wore to the Castle dinner is, alas! no longer of
any consequence to the community at large. In the mysterious purposes
of that third volume which we seem to be living in Ireland, Francesca's
beauty and mine, her hats and frocks as well as mine, are all reduced to
the background; but Salemina's toilet had cost us some thought. When she
first issued from the discreet and decorous fastnesses of Salem society,
she had never donned any dinner dress that was not as high at the throat
and as long in the sleeves as the Puritan mothers ever wore to meeting.
In England she lapsed sufficiently from the rigid Salem standard to
adopt a timid compromise; in Scotland we coaxed her into still further
modernities, until now she is completely enfranchised. We achieved this
at considerable trouble, but do not grudge the time spent in persuasion
when we see her en grande toilette. In day dress she has always
been inclined ever so little to a primness and severity that suggest
old-maidishness. In her low gown of pale grey, with all her silver
hair waved softly, she is unexpectedly lovely,--her face softened,
transformed, and magically 'brought out' by the whiteness of her
shoulders and slender throat. Not an ornament, not a jewel, will she
wear; and she is right to keep the nunlike simplicity of style which
suits her so well, and which holds its own even in the vicinity of
Francesca's proud and glowing young beauty.
On this particular evening, Francesca, who wished her to look her best,
had prudently hidden her eyeglasses, for which we are now trying to
substitute a silver-handled lorgnette. Two years ago we deliberately
smashed her spectacles, which she had adopted at five-and-twenty.
“But they are more convenient than eye-glasses,” she urged obtusely.
“That argument is beneath you, dear,” we replied. “If your hair were not
prematurely grey, we might permit the spectacles, hideous as they are,
but a combination of the two is impossible; the world shall not convict
you of failing sight when you are guilty only of petty astigmatism!”
The grey satin had been chosen for this dinner, and Salemina was
dressed, with the exception of the pretty pearl-embroidered waist that
has to be laced at the last moment, and had slipped on a dressing jacket
to come down from her room in the second story, to be advised in some
trifling detail. She looked unusually well, I thought: her eyes were
bright and her cheeks flushed, as she rustled in, holding her satin
skirts daintily away from the dusty carpets.
Now, from the morning of our arrival we have had trouble with the
Mullarkey door-knobs, which come off continually, and lie on the floors
at one side of the door or the other. Benella followed Salemina from
her room, and, being in haste, closed the door with unwonted energy. She
heard the well-known rattle and clang, but little suspected that, as one
knob dropped outside in the hall, the other fell inside, carrying the
rod of connection with it. It was not long before we heard a cry of
despair from above, and we responded to it promptly.
“It's fell in on the inside, knob and all, as I always knew it would
some day; and now we can't get back into the room!” said Benella.
“Oh, nonsense! We can open it with something or other,” I answered
encouragingly, as I drew on my gloves; “only you must hasten, for the
car is at the door.”
The curling iron was too large, the shoe hook too short, a lead pencil
too smooth, a crochet needle too slender: we tried them all, and the
door resisted all our insinuations. “Must you necessarily get in before
we go?” I asked Salemina thoughtlessly.
She gave me a glance that almost froze my blood, as she replied, “The
waist of my dress is in the room.”
Francesca and I spent a moment in irrepressible mirth, and then summoned
Mrs. Mullarkey. Whether the Irish kings could be relied upon in an
emergency I do not know, but their descendants cannot. Mrs. Mullarkey
had gone to the convent to see the Mother Superior about something; Mr.
Mullarkey was at the Dooclone market; Peter was not to be found; but
Oonah and Molly came, and also the old lady from Mullinavat, with a
package of raffle tickets in her hand.
We left this small army under Benella's charge, and went down to my room
for a hasty consultation.
“Could you wear any evening bodice of Francesca's?” I asked.
“Of course not. Francesca's waist measure is three inches smaller than
mine.”
“Could you manage my black lace dress?”
“Penelope, you know it would only reach to my ankles! No, you must go
without me, and go at once. We are too new acquaintances to keep Lady
Killbally's dinner waiting. Why did I come to this place like a pauper,
with only one evening gown, when I should have known that if there is
a castle anywhere within forty miles you always spend half your time in
it!”
This slur was totally unjustified, but I pardoned it, because Salemina's
temper is ordinarily perfect, and the circumstances were somewhat
tragic. “If you had brought a dozen costumes, they would all be in your
room at this moment,” I replied; “but we must think of something. It
is impossible for you to remain behind; we were invited more on your
account than our own, for you are Dr. La Touche's friend, and the dinner
is especially in his honour. Molly, have you a ladder?”
“Sorra a wan, ma'am.”
“Could we borrow one?”
“We could not, Mrs. Beresford, ma'am.”
“Then see if you can break down the door; try hard, and if you succeed I
will buy you a nice new one! Part of Miss Peabody's dress is inside the
room, and we shall be late to the Castle dinner.”
The entire corps, with Mrs. Waterford of Mullinavat on top, cast itself
on the door, which withstood the shock to perfection. Then in a moment
we heard: “Weary's on it, it will not come down for us, ma'am. It's the
iligant locks we do be havin' in the house; they're mortial shtrong,
ma'am!”
“Strong, indeed!” exclaimed the incensed Benella, in a burst of New
England wrath. “There's nothing strong about the place but the impidence
of the people in it! If you had told Peter to get a carpenter or a
locksmith, as I've been asking you these two weeks, it would have been
all right; but you never do anything till a month after it's too late.
I've no patience with such a set of doshies, dawdling around and leaving
everything to go to rack and ruin!”
“Sure it was yourself that ruinated the thing,” responded Molly, with
spirit, for the unaccustomed word 'doshy' had kindled her quick Irish
temper. “It's aisy handlin' the knob is used to, and faith it would 'a'
stuck there for you a twelvemonth!”
“They will be quarrelling soon,” said Salemina nervously. “Do not wait
another instant; you are late enough now, and I insist on your going.
Make any excuse you see fit: say I am ill, say I am dead, if you like,
but don't tell the real excuse--it is too shiftless and wretched and
embarrassing. Don't cry, Benella. Molly, Oonah, go downstairs to your
work. Mrs. Waterford, I think perhaps you have forgotten that we have
already purchased raffle tickets, and we'll not take any more for fear
that we may draw the necklace. Good-bye, dears; tell Lady Killbally I
shall see her to-morrow.”