Transcriber's Note
Some illustrations were uncaptioned in the original. The transcriber
has used the captions from the list of illustrations for the
convenience of the reader. These captions are in {braces}.
Beautiful Ireland
Killarney
By
Mary Gorges
[Illustration]
London
Adam & Charles Black
Soho Square W
1912
[Illustration: {THE UPPER LAKE.}]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE GLAMOUR OF KILLARNEY 5
II. THE ROAD THROUGH THE GAP: ITS MEMORIES AND ITS RUINS 11
III. THE LAKES AND THE MOUNTAINS 23
IV. MUCKROSS 33
V. ROSS, INNISFALLEN, AND THE LOWER LAKE 38
VI. THE KILLARNEY FOLK 49
VII. THE FAIRIES--AND FAREWELL! 56
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
BY FRANCIS S. WALKER, R.H.A.
1. THE UPPER LAKE _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. THE GAP OF DUNLOE ON A STORMY DAY 9
3. THE HEAD OF THE GAP OF DUNLOE 16
4. AT THE FOOT OF MANGERTON MOUNTAIN 25
5. O'SULLIVAN'S PUNCHBOWL 27
6. MUCKROSS LAKE AND GLENA MOUNTAIN 30
7. MUCKROSS 32
8. THE ISLAND OF INNISFALLEN 43
9. IN A TYPICAL COTTAGE 46
10. MOUNTAIN HOMES OF THE KILLARNEY DISTRICT 49
11. CUTTING PEAT FROM THE BOG 56
12. THE EAGLE'S NEST, KILLARNEY _On the cover_
KILLARNEY
CHAPTER I
THE GLAMOUR OF KILLARNEY
Killarney--in Irish "the Church of the Sloes"--though but a small
town, is, owing to its position, the centre from which the wondrously
lovely scenery of the district may best be explored, a district which
has been described as "the Mecca of every pilgrim in search of the
sublime and beautiful in Nature--the mountain paradise of the West."
Yet if the magical softness of shimmering wave and wooded isle, the
glory of their colouring, the ineffable peace which broods over hill
and vale, tempt the summer visitor to think that Paradise could not be
fairer, there are dark glens, frowning mountains, and sombre passes,
which but too vividly remind the beholder that on earth must the
shadow always follow the sunshine, the minor note of sadness be heard,
that even in this enchanted spot has the war-cry many a time been
sounded, and men have wreaked their fierce passions and poured out
their blood, and women, stricken to the heart, have suffered and died
under these tender skies. The ruined castles tell their own story.
To analyze the charm of Killarney Vale is impossible. It is the very
region of romance, and one to which fairy legend and ghostly tale seem
to fit themselves better than do the commonplaces of life. There would
seem nothing strange were the O'Donoghue on his white charger seen to
cleave the wave and emerge on its foam-flecked shore, coming we know
not whence, going we know not where, but real as when he trod his
native glens, a prince and a ruler among men. The unseen world seems
very near to those who have fallen under the spell of fair Killarney.
Part of this charm is doubtless due to the wonder of its beauty, the
ceaseless contrasts it presents. I have seen a theory advanced of late
years that, as is the land, so are the dwellers thereon; that the
character of the soil determines that of its children; the rivers
which they look upon, rapid and lawless, or strong and silent; the
dark forest; the rich fields or the barren plains; the mysterious
mountain or the gay valley, alike influence--nay, form--their
individuality. There is a remarkable passage in the autobiography of a
very remarkable man--Stillman (war correspondent to the _Times_ in its
earlier days), in which he speaks of the effect which a few weeks'
sojourn among the then primeval forests on the banks of the Hudson
produced upon him. Over-wearied by brain work, he had shut himself
away from sight or sound of civilization, from human companionship,
depending on his gun for food, the waters of the spring for drink. He
describes how gradually the artificialities of life seemed to slip
from him, and he felt akin with grass and tree, with the skies above
him, the clouds which swept over their surface, the glories of the sun
by day, the moon and the stars by night. He seemed also conscious of a
world of spirits, or at least beings not of flesh and blood, very
close to him. Sometimes as he lay at rest upon the grass a radiant
face looked down on him; once or twice a voice spoke. Above all, he
felt confident he was being guided when external guidance was
impossible, in black darkness, and when a mistake or false step meant
death. He believed that senses we have lost revive, and that we grow
cognisant of a world other than that we habitually live in, as, far
away from the haunts of men, we let Nature speak to us once more.
In many voices has Nature spoken to the children of Killarney, weaving
something of the changeableness, the melancholy, the deep gloom, and
the overflowing sunshine of their hills and vales into the very heart
of the people, making them what they are for good or ill. To them has
been given vision of the supernatural region as a refuge to the
earth-bound spirit from the sordid cares of money-getting; and so has a
world of dreamers, for all their outward gaiety and lightheartedness,
been created in the kingdom of Kerry. Dreamers we call them, but, after
all, may not Jean Paul Richter's words be prophetic, and the dreamers
yet awaken from life's uneasy sleep to find its dreams alone were true.
[Illustration: THE GAP OF DUNLOE ON A STORMY DAY.
The wildness of the Gap is a great contrast to the lake scenery
to which it gives access.]
The name of Killarney conjures up such thoughts. It owes its fame
solely to its beauty and to the fascination which the character of
that beauty exercises over the beholder. For it is never the same, and
every change appeals to the imagination. Who that has seen it can
forget the superb tinting of the foliage which clothes the mountain
sides and transforms the isles into quivering kaleidoscopes of colour,
flashing back the light as the waves of a sunlit sea. Then a shadow
flits from the mountain tops, and the hues change as though under the
spell of a magician hidden among those far-off caves, but only to a
yet richer combination. Gorse and heather, arbutus and fern, show a
softer radiance, less dazzling, but more sympathetic; silvery rills
course down the declivities which surround the lakes, now visible
through the trees and giant shrubs, now hidden, but always with a
murmur of sound like distant notes of the fairy music which once, it
is said, woke the echoes of Killarney. And for those who have the
hearing ear it may do so still; with unbelievers the "good people"
have no intercourse.
There is a supernatural origin ascribed to almost everything in
Killarney--to the lakes among the rest. These are formed and supplied
by the numerous minor lakes in the surrounding mountains, and by
several rivers which flow into them, having received on their way the
waters of innumerable tributary streams, all finding an outlet by the
rapid river Laune, which bears them to the Atlantic through the
beautiful bay of Dingle.
But in long-ago days there were no lakes at Killarney--so legend
says--only an extensive and inhabited valley, fair and fertile. In
this was a magic fountain, which supplied water clear as crystal,
concerning which a tradition existed that whoever should displace the
stone over the well-head would bring destruction to himself and to the
valley. It was the reckless daring of a mortal which caused the
fulfilment of this prediction. One of the great O'Donoghues, to prove
the falsity of a tradition which he scorned, resolved in evil hour to
have the stone removed to his castle. With fear and trembling his
subjects, who dared not disobey him, awaited the result, all save his
favourite jester, who fled to the summit of a neighbouring mountain.
When morning came the jester looked down into the valley, and saw
nothing but a great expanse of water. The valley was flooded in a
single night, and its inhabitants drowned. It is believed, however,
that they did not perish, but still exist under the lakes, enjoying a
happier life than the earth one they left, feasting, music, and
dancing filling the hours.