BLARNEY--KILLARNEY--THE LAKES.
At 9 A. M. Tuesday, April 23, we took a jaunting-car for
famed Blarney Castle. Before proceeding with our story we must speak
of our team, for it is the mode of conveyance for tourists over the
Emerald Isle, and Ireland would hardly seem like Ireland without the
jaunting-car. It is a vehicle with two wheels and a single horse. The
driver is mounted up, sulky-style, in front. There are two seats,
lengthwise and back-to-back, for a couple of adult persons, facing
outwards, and most of the time _holding on_, though a little practice
convinces one that the danger of falling is less than anticipated.
Large numbers of these teams are in the main streets of all the
principal Irish towns, waiting for employment. The usual price for a
jaunt is eight shillings, or about $2.00 of American money. The one
selected, whose driver was over anxious to carry the two Amirikins, as
he called us, offered to do the job for 7_s._ 6_d._ Yankee-like, having
made a good bargain,--and the driver, unyankee-like, having as at an
auction bid against himself,--we mounted, and were soon on our way to
the place so renowned in history. First, we will consider the roads.
The ride is exceedingly pleasant, and over one of the smooth and hard
roads which are everywhere to be found in Ireland. We go out of Cork
southwardly, and pass through a small and not over-nice settlement
called Black Pool, by no means inaptly named. The scenery is very
pleasing, and so is the road we travel. The view on the north side
of the river, though not wild or romantic, has beautiful landscapes,
made up of fine hills and valleys, streams and groves, with, now and
then, unlooked-for ruins of a monastery or small castle, or of distant
round-towers.
There are no long straight roads, but there is an ever varying aspect,
and the ways are clean to a fault. It is a characteristic of Ireland,
England, and nearly all European countries, to have well-built
faced-stone walls along the roadside, and an entire absence of the
random weeds and bushes which so commonly grow along the walls and
sides of the roads in America. It is a disgrace to our Young American
civilization that it should be an exception, where the sides of our
roads, and especially in the vicinity of farmhouses, are clean,
and in lawn-like condition, as is always the case abroad. We have
much to learn from Ireland,--a deal of our practice to unlearn, and
considerable to do,--before we can compare favorably with Europe in
this respect. A waste of acres exists in consequence of this neglect on
nearly all New England farms. In the aggregate there are hundreds of
thousands of acres which, if kept clean and cultivated for grass, would
be profitable. Even if done at the town's expense, the income would go
far towards paying the cost of keeping in repair the adjoining highway.
The State should pass a law making this neglect a finable offence; and
the sooner all States do this the better our civilization will be.
We continue on our way enjoying inexpressibly the exhilarating air
and sunny, May-like day, and entertained somewhat by the clack of the
driver, who, as best he can, tries to make his old story appear to us
as new as possible, but, in spite of our or his efforts, we get the
impression that he has told that story before.
We next get a good but distant view of Carrigrohan Castle, belonging to
one Mr. McSwiney--the name of both castle and owner Irish enough. It
is situated on a precipitous limestone-rock formation on the opposite
bank of the river. At length--one hour passed, and about four miles
traversed--we arrive at the old, dirty, low, dilapidated, Irish town
of Blarney, which, for situation and surroundings, is as beautiful as
every place in Ireland can't help being. Blarney has been immortalized
in song by Millikin, Croker, and old, peculiar Father Prout.
A ride of two miles, and we are at the grounds of the castle itself.
It was built in the fifteenth century by Cormac McCarthy, or possibly
by the Countess of Desmond, and became the home of the famous family
of McCarthys. It is now a magnificent old ruin, well situated near
a little lake, and surrounded by grand old trees. Admission to the
premises is readily gained, as the grounds are open to the public free,
such small, optional fee being given to the guide as the tourist may
incline to present.
The castle consists mainly of the massive Donjon Tower, about forty
feet square, and one hundred and ten feet high, and some ruined walls
of less height, once part of adjoining apartments. Much of the tower
and lower walls is completely covered with ivy, and most of the foliage
is from twelve to sixteen inches thick. There is a picturesqueness
about such a place that is indescribable. The grand and colossal scale
on which it is constructed; the rich greenness of the lawns; the
shade of portions of the immediately adjoining groves; the sombre hue
of the stonework, and the dark green of the mantling ivy; the gleam
of the little lake as discovered through the vistas; the age of the
edifice, so apparent; the consciousness that this is a veritable ruin,
and what is left of an unparalleled splendor of other days, now calm
as if resting fixed in its immortality,--these combine to resolve
imagination into reality, and produce sensations that are felt, but
never transferred from one mortal to another. Perhaps there enters into
emotion a suggestion of decline and decay still operating. "The vulgar
crowd," as old English expression would put it, are possessed not by
the finer æsthetic conditions, but by those more tangible and material.
The famed Blarney Stone is one of the coping-stones of the outside
projecting cornice, near the top of the tower, and resting on large,
but plain, stone corbels, or brackets. In appearance from the ground,
it is six feet long and eighteen inches thick, and projects two feet
or so. Many years ago it appeared to be insecure, and two iron bars
were put on the outside, securing it in its position. There are courses
of stone upon it, falling back from the front surface, and making a
parapet to the tower. It was over this parapet that persons, head
downwards, held and aided by others, performed the task of kissing
the stone. A stairway on the inside leads nearly to the top of the
tower; but now, for a more convenient and safe way of performing the
operation, another stone, bearing date 1703, is kept within the tower.
Its magic is as effectual, while it is reached with comparative safety.
It is indeed marvellous that a few lines of worse than doggerel
poetry have materially aided in giving this stone a notoriety that is
world-wide, and which, but for this aid, would hardly have been heard
of outside of its neighborhood. It was long a superstitious belief that
whoever kissed it would ever after be in possession of such sweet,
persuasive, and convincing eloquence as to put the listener entirely
under the control of the speaker. Rev. Father Prout's allusion to the
stone is in part as follows:--
There is a stone there that whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent;
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of Parliament.
A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or
An out and outer, to be let alone!
Don't hope to hinder him or to bewilder him,
Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone.
The grounds by which the castle are surrounded were once adorned with
statues, bridges, grottos, but all are now gone, and Father Prout
deplores the condition as follows:--
The muses shed a tear,
When the cruel auctioneer,
With his hammer in his hand to sweet Blarney came.
Blarney Lake is a beautiful piece of water, set in a charming framework
of trees and natural shrubbery, and is about five minutes' walk from
the castle. Tradition, handed down through many generations, has it
that at certain seasons a herd of white cows come up from the centre
of the lake, look admiringly but with a melancholy pleasure on the
ruined castle, for a few moments' graze on the lawns near it, and then
with a soldierly march retire to their oblivion-like resting-place,
there to remain till the time comes next year for their weird and
fairy-like visit. Another legend is--and this country abounds with
them--that the Earl of Chantry having forfeited the castle, and having
had it confiscated and ruined at the Revolution, carried his plate
and deposited it in a particular part of the lake, and that three
McCarthys, and they only, are in possession of the secret of the place
where it was cast in. When either of the three dies, he communicates
the intelligence to some other member of the family, and thus the
secret is kept, never to be publicly revealed till a McCarthy is again
Lord of Blarney.
Within the castle grounds runs the small River Coman, and on its banks
is an old Cromlech, or druidical altar; and there are also a number
of pillar-stones, similar to those at Stonehenge, on which are worn
inscriptions of ancient Ogham characters.
Differing as the place did from anything yet seen by us, and our
anticipations more than fulfilled, we, after a two hours' sojourn,
reluctantly mounted the jaunting-car and took our way back to Cork.
After dining at the Victoria, at half-past three of this same day, we
took steam-cars for the town of Killarney; and here we must speak of
the railroads.
As this was our first experience in travelling on one of them, we may
with propriety say something of them once for all; for one statement
applies to railroads, not only in Ireland, England, and Scotland, but
in all those parts of Europe where we have travelled. Solid are the
roadbeds, not troubled by frosts as ours are. Stone or iron are the
bridges, and of the most durable kind, often with brick abutments and
arches. Of course, at times, there are the bridges for common roads
that pass over them. The substantial tunnels are sometimes miles long.
There are well-made grass enbankments, nicely kept. The stations are
quite good and cleanly, and there is invariably an exquisite neatness
about the outside, where flower-patches and borders are carefully
cultivated. The restaurants are poor and uninviting. Especially is this
description true of England. Large and strong engines, on which is an
absence of superfluous decorations of brass, or costly-to-keep-clean
finish, are universal. The cars, as we say, but _coaches_ as they term
them, are of three classes, first, second, and third. The best of them
are undesirable to Americans, but submitted to in the absence of those
with which they are familiar.
Prices for travel vary. That of first-class is slightly more per mile
than in ours. The second-class is something less, or, on an average,
two thirds the cost of ours. Two cents per mile is the usual tariff.
Perhaps one quarter of the people ride first-class, and the remainder
are about equally divided between the second and third. The first-class
are what we may describe as from four to six common mail-stages, built
together as one, but wide enough for five persons on each seat. There
is a door in the middle, opening on the platforms, and of course half
of the passengers must ride backward. This is true also of the other
classes, with slight exceptions in some of the cars of Switzerland;
and even these, at their best, make an American homesick, and sigh
for those of his native land. A light, or window, in the doors, and
a small one at the end of each seat, is the universal rule. Second
and third-class cars are nearly alike, save perhaps that there are
cushions in the former, while there are none in the latter; though by
no means does the purchase of a second-class ticket ensure cushions.
The cars of these classes are straight-sided, like our freight cars,
with side doors and small windows like those of the first-class. There
are no fires, poor lights for night travel; no toilet saloons, nor any
conveniences as in ours. Once in, the door is shut by an official, and
usually locked till we land at the next station. In the cars of the
first two classes the partitions extend from floor to roof, with seats
against both sides; but in a few of the third-class there is simply a
wide rail for resting the back, or a partition of the same height. When
we saw any of these, though having it may be a second-class ticket,
we would, to be as homelike as possible, avail ourselves of them. One
does not object to second-class passage; and even the third is far from
being as questionable as at first thought, to one unused to travelling,
it might seem. It is generally the intensely aristocratic class,
of the _noli-me-tangere_ kind, who ride first-class,--or Americans
inexperienced in travel.
Officials are at all stations in abundance. They are ready
cheerfully--but in their own way, to be sure--to give any information
a traveller may require. In all parts of the Continent over which we
journeyed, we had no special trouble in understanding them, or in
making them understand us. So many English and Americans travel that
the employees soon learn how to reply to the usual questions put to
them. A little knowledge, however, of German and of French--as much as
applies to common things, and as may with a little exertion be learned
from most of the guide-books--helps the tourist amazingly. As regards
the time made by these railroads, we rode on some of them faster than
on ours at home, and are justified in saying that their promptness
of arrival at stations is incredible. The roads with which we are
conversant are in advance of ours in this respect. In but one instance
did we find a train late; and waiting at junctions for other trains was
apparently unknown. The conductors are expected to run their trains on
time, and they do so unless prevented by accidents. We have been thus
minute in stating the facts, as they are sure to be of interest to
persons contemplating a journey.
And now we pursue our way, having left Cork at 3 o'clock P.
M., towards Killarney and its famed lakes, which to us have all
the charms of the best Castles in the Air; for who that has thought of
the famous Lakes of Killarney has not fancied something good enough
for a place in the neighborhood of Eden in its palmy days? Tickets
in first-class cars cost us $2.25 each. After a ride of two hours we
arrive at Mallow, and after three hours more, at Killarney. The first
look of the town indicates a village well shaded with trees, and one is
led to anticipate anything but the reality.
The houses are built in the usual Irish style,--that is, they are of
plastered and whitewashed stone, and the roofs are thatched. Generally
they are not over one story in height, and a low story at that. They
stand on crooked and narrow streets--or alleys, rather. There is an
absence of cleanliness, and little to sustain distant impressions. One
of the things that early attract the tourist's attention is the general
poverty of many of the inhabitants, their lack of employment and
visible means of support. Beggars are bold and used to their calling;
and both they and the swarm of would-be guides are annoying if treated
with common civility. There is an ancient look about buildings and
people, and we get the suggestion that we see things as they were a
century ago. Nothing is new and fresh but the foliage. Everything has
the old odor of an ancient place.
The town has a population of 5,187, exclusive of 400 inmates of the
almshouse--one to every thirteen of the population. Killarney is
situated about a mile and a half from the nearest of the three lakes.
There are two or three streets of some pretensions, on which are
buildings three or four stories high, used as stores and hotels. Our
hotel, the Innisfallen House, was kept, as all such small taverns are,
by a woman. It was a thoroughly antiquated Irish institution, and for
this reason we selected it. Experienced by long years of practice, our
hostess was the _man_ of the house, and had an eye to business that
would do honor to the manager of the Vendome or the Brunswick at Boston.
There are few public buildings. The newish Roman Catholic Cathedral is
a large structure of limestone, of good early English architecture,
built from designs by Pugin. It is hardly in keeping with the town as
it is, and only the eye of faith can see its harmony with the Killarney
of the future.
Here may be related an incident illustrating a custom which is
doubtless a relic of other days. After our visit to the cathedral,
at about 7 P. M., we were surprised by the sight of a peculiar crowd
of people coming up the street we had entered. It was a procession,
numbering some hundred or more, carrying a coffin to the cathedral.
The coffin was oaken, moulded at the top and bottom edges with
black, and having three ornamental, black, iron plates--eight inches
square, with rings in them--on each side. Black, round-headed nails
ornamented the ends. The coffin was not covered, and rested on the
shoulders of six men, three on each side. As by magic, three bearers
would occasionally step out, and others take their places. Back of
those who headed the procession were two rows of women, from fifty to
seventy years old, with black dresses, and shawls over their heads.
These were howling, two or more at a time keeping up the noise; and
thus, without break or intermission, there was a continued wailing,
in syllables of a slow but measured and distinct utterance, sounding
like "Ar-ter-_ow_-ow-_ow_-er." This was repeated till the perfection of
monotony was attained.
When near the cathedral the procession halted and the wailing ceased.
The crowd numbered, it may be, a hundred. Arriving at the side door
the coffin was carried in, and about twenty persons, probably the near
relatives, entered. The remainder, including the Americans,--who, now
"being in Turkey, were doing as the Turkeys do,"--remained outside, and
stood or knelt uncovered. In a few moments all was ended; the friends
came out of the cathedral, the crowd dispersed, and "rag, tag, and
bobtail" resumed their usual vocations, the dead man having been left
in the building, with the approved and requisite number of candles "to
light him to glory."
Turning into another street, another and similar crowd was encountered.
This time the coffin was covered with black cloth, but decorated like
the other, with mouldings, nails, and iron plates. In five minutes more
came another. We were told the bodies were to remain in the cathedral
till to-morrow, when mass could be held and they would be buried. This
is a custom of the place each evening, and has been continued from time
immemorial. It results from bad judgment as to what is a good use of
the present, or what is a befitting preparation for the hereafter. It
is a type of superstition gone to seed, and shows a love for sitting in
"the region and shadow of death."
Now we ramble over the town, and through some of the well-kept and
stone-walled roads. In spite of the condition of the most populous
parts, there is a delight and charm in these suburbs. In that pleasant
evening air, within sound of the vesper bells, enveloped in the general
stillness of that village atmosphere, there came good and vivid
impressions of the antiquity of the place. Without an effort came the
remembrance that, through the past centuries, thousands and tens of
thousands of sight-seers, poets, historians, and people of great and
of small renown, had walked these streets, meditated, used the time as
we were doing, and passed on,--their feet never to press this historic
soil again,--
Like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white, then melts forever.
The next morning we took a jaunting-car, and began our tour of the
lakes. A most elegant day it was, like good old George Herbert's
Sunday--the "bridal of the earth and sky." Admirable in all respects
were the roads and their surroundings,--a perpetual reminder of
worse kept ones at home. We pass an elegant stone building, the
Union Workhouse and County Lunatic Asylum, on the right, leaving the
cathedral on our left, and ride on through that lovely scenery. It is
not wild or romantic, in the common signification of those words.
On our right, off in the fields and on elevated ground, are the ruins
of Aghadoe, overlooking an immense valley, where reposes--out of sight
to us at our left, Lough Leane, the lower and largest of the three
celebrated lakes.
Next, three miles out, are the ruins of Aghadoe castle and church.
All that remains are the fragments of a tower thirty or forty feet
in height. Of its history, or the date of its foundation, no records
are extant. The church is a fine ruin, and shows the remains of a
long low building, consisting of two chapels, joined at their rear
ends. The easterly chapel is in the Gothic style, bearing date A.
D. 1158, and is dedicated to the Holy Trinity. Full seven hundred
years are gone, more than a third of the Christian era, since that
stone pile was placed where it is. The other chapel is older yet, of
a rude, Romanesque architecture, and was built under the patronage
of St. Finian. The two are separated by a solid wall, through which
there was once a communication, closed up long before the vacating and
destruction of the building. The roof and woodwork being gone, nothing
but stone remains. The two chapels, extending to the east and west, are
eighty feet long and twenty feet wide.
Continuing our ride a mile farther, we turn to the left, and pass the
Aghadoe House,--a fine and well-kept estate, the residence of the
Dowager Lady Headley. Next, we turn sharp to the right, and are at the
estate of James O'Connell, Esq., brother of the late distinguished
agitator, Daniel O'Connell. Continuing, we pass the Killalee House, and
the ruins of its church. Six and a half miles now from Killarney, we
have on our left, the elegant estate of Beaufort House.
We cross the little River Laune, which is filled with surplus water
from the small, or upper lake, and here appears to view Dunloe Castle,
the seat of Daniel Mahoney, Esq. The building has a modern look, and
was originally the residence of the powerful and noted O'Sullivan Mor.
We must not fail to notice the Cave of Dunloe. It is situated in a
field some distance off, is of great antiquity, and was discovered in
1838. It contains peculiar stones, which are presumed to belong to an
ancient Irish library; and, strange to say, the books are the large
stones composing the roof. Their angles contain the writings, which
are simple, short, vertical lines, arranged, tally-like, above and
below a horizontal one. Special numbers or combinations of these lines
designate letters. It is the Ogham alphabet.
We are now near the cottage of the celebrated Kate Kearney, whom Moore
has immortalized in his "Sweet Innisfallen,"--
"Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney."
The house is solitary, and stands on the left of the roadside, with
high hills about it. It is but one story high, and is some forty feet
long, and twenty wide. It is made of stone, plastered and whitewashed,
has a thatched roof, and is occupied by the reputed granddaughter of
the famous Kate, and of course she bears the same name. On our arrival,
she appeared at her door as usual--an old woman of sixty years, of
small stature. She wore a short dress, heavy shoes, the inevitable
kerchief, or miniature shawl, folded diamond-ways over her shoulders,
and a frilled white muslin cap on her head. She held a mug in one
hand, and a common wine bottle in the other, with glass tumbler to
match. She poured out the goat's milk, and then naïvely, with an almost
young-maidenly tone of voice, asked: "And will ye not have put into it
a drop of the mountain dew?" We must, though total abstinence men, run
a bit of risk now, to do all that curious tourists do, so we said Yes.
A drop or two mingled with the milk, when the thought instantly came
that at home the dew would have been so like whiskey that we couldn't
convince ourselves it was not, and so we cried "Hold! Enough!" She
held, and it _was_ enough. A shilling was presented; but no, she had
done business too long, and her distinguished grandmother before her,
to be outgeneralled by Yankees, and so came a demand for more, which
was refused. Her maiden-like demure condition changed, and we left,
thinking discretion and valor were synonymous terms; and she, probably
of the same opinion, retired to try her luck with the next comer that
way.
And now we enter the Gap of Dunloe, one of the notable places of
Ireland. It is a narrow, wild, and romantic mountain pass, between
highlands known as Macgillicuddy's Reeks on the right, and Purple
Mountain on the left. The length of the pass is about four miles, and
the road is circuitous and hilly. At the side, and at times crossing
it, is a narrow stream called the Loe, at as many places expanded
into five small lakes, or pools. The mountain-sides are rocky and
often precipitous, and the road is here and there little more than a
cart-path, winding right and left romantically between these hills,
from which echoes finely the sound of our voices, or the bugle blown or
the musket fired by peasants for the tourists' amusement. The journey
is one thrillingly interesting, and about the only one of the kind that
can be made on the island.
One of the five lakes, each of which has a name, is called Black Lough;
and it is in this--a basin some one hundred feet long and thirty feet
wide, with walls of stone, partially filled with a dark water--that St.
Patrick is said to have banished the last snake. The guides have the
story at their tongue's end, and glibly relate it in a schoolboy-like
fashion, never tripping, nor leading one to so much as surmise that
they have not told the story before.
The team takes us but a short distance into the gap, and we avail
ourselves of animals called horses, who are ever on hand for the
purpose. The guides owning them have followed us for a mile or more, in
spite of our protestations, acting as though they knew we should hire
their beasts, although we had with business-like earnestness told them
that we thought we would walk. These animals were of a doubtful nature,
that would confuse Darwin. They were either high-grade mules with
short ears, or low-grade horses with long ones. We finally agreed with
the owners, paying fifty cents each for the _what-is-its_, the guides
engaging to take the animals back when we were done with them.
Emerging from the gap we come out at the Black Valley stretching
away to our left, and hemmed in, amphitheatre-like, by the base of
the hills. The first view of this sombre moor reminds one of the
heath-pictures in "Macbeth." Kohl says of it: "Had there been at
the bottom, among the rugged masses of black rock, some smoke and
flame instead of water, we might have imagined we were looking into
the infernal regions." We ride down a winding road in the great
amphitheatre, and along to its extremity, and are at the end of our
journey with the horses; and now we are to walk a half-mile through a
footpath, over fields and through pleasant groves, to the once fine
garden and present ruins of Lord Brandon's Cottage. Here, we are at
the upper lake; and our boatmen, by arrangement of the hostess at
Innisfallen House, were there awaiting our arrival at 1 P. M.
They had, as usual, gone direct from Killarney to the lower lake, and
had rowed over that and the two others to this point, having made, in
reversed order, the tour over the lakes we are to take.
At 1.30 P. M., Thursday, April 25, we are in the row-boat
with our two oarsmen, starting from the shore of the upper lake which
is the smallest of the three,--a sheet of water two and a half miles
long, three fourths of a mile wide, and covering 430 acres, being about
two thirds as large as the middle lake, and only a little more than a
twelfth as large as the lower one. And here we must say, what of choice
we would not say, that in most instances, where the imagination has
free play, realities do not fulfil anticipations.
The fulsome and unqualified praises which have been bestowed on these
really beautiful and justly celebrated lakes incline one to expect
too much, and to overestimate their sublimity. This element, so ever
present on the lakes of Scotland, is here often lacking. There is,
however, a cleanliness in the remarkably irregular outline of their
shores, and a beautiful decoration made by varying tinted and luxuriant
vegetation, that largely compensates for a lack of vast boldness, and
of great and precipitous rocky walls; and enough mountain views are in
the near distance to give the scenery a majestic appearance, at times
even grand in general effect. The heavy woodlands, with here and there
a craggy cliff, as at the Eagle's Nest, combine to produce a charm not
found about ordinary lakes. Yet it must in justice be said that our
Lake George, and parts of Winnepiseogee, are their equals.
The upper lake, at its westerly end, contains twelve islands, which in
the aggregate cover six acres,--none of them, however, containing more
than one acre, and some of them less than a quarter of one. McCarthy's
is the one first reached. Arbutus is another, and the largest in the
lake. It takes its name from the shrub, _arbutus unendo_. The leaves
are a glossy green, and so arranged at the ends of the branches, that
the waxen, flesh-like blossoms, as they hang in graceful racemes, or
the later crimson fruit, seem embraced by a mantle of the richest
verdure. All the islands abound in ivy, and the rocks and trees are
often thoroughly bedecked with it. This lake is surely the finest of
the three, and is so mainly from the fact of its having these islands
and the great irregularity of the shore, embellished by the beautiful
accompanying foliage. Being more immediately in the vicinity of the
highlands, it has much of stern mountain effect and grandeur. From
some points of view this little sheet of water appears to be entirely
land-locked. Towards the lower end it becomes narrow, and is only a
strip of water half a mile long. This is called Newfoundland Bay. On
from this it is a yet narrower stream, varying from thirty to one
hundred feet wide, and two miles long, which is the connecting part
with the middle lake. To add a fascination, and intensify the interest
of the tourist, every rock of respectable dimensions, and every island
or cove, has its high-sounding name; for we pass Coleman's Eye, the Man
of War, the Four Friends. We now arrive at the Eagle's Nest, a craggy
formation 700 feet above the water, in the rugged clefts of which
the eagle builds its eyrie. The young birds are taken from the nest
between the middle of June and the first of July, and the rocks are so
precipitous that the nests are only reached by means of ropes let down
from above.
The echoes from this and the surrounding rocks are very fine, and we
hear them grandly repeated from hilltop to hilltop--ever continued, and
passed on with a clearly perceptible interval, till, weaker and weaker
by their long, rough travel, they grow fainter, and at last melt away
in some unknown cavern, or, as it were, infinitely distant glen, and
are lost in the great realm of nothingness from whence they came.
Continuing on, we reach a fairy-like place, the Meeting of Waters,
where our river, arriving at the middle lake, glides to the left
around the end of Dinish Island, which reaches from, and is bounded
by, this and the lower lake. Now we are at the Old Weir Bridge, very
antiquated,--consisting of two unequal arches, through which the water
rushes with great earnestness and force. The boatmen do nothing but
guide the boat, and it is a moment of intense interest to the novice,
as we dash under one of the arches. Soon we are in the middle, or, as
it is called, the Mucross, or Torc Lake.
This contains 680 acres, or forty more than a square mile. The
principal islands are the Dinish and the Brickeen, and these are in
fact the side and end walls, or the dividing barrier between it and the
lower lake. There are three passages between them. This lake is oblong
and narrow. In a line nearly straight we pass to the high, Gothic,
single-arched bridge connecting it with the lower lake. Brickeen
contains 19 acres, and is twenty or more feet up from the lake, and
well wooded. Dinish is also well wooded. It contains 34 acres, and is
a sort of watering-place. It has a small, rough, rustic stone wharf;
also a cottage-hotel with pleasure-grounds; and by making previous
arrangements dinner may be had.
Our provident hostess, having an eye to our comfort and another to her
income, had sent by the boatmen a basket of luncheon, and so we dined
on the lake itself, and not on the shore of it. Of the beauty of Torc
Lake much may be said. It has a charm peculiarly its own. Shut in with
a considerably uniform wall-work of islands, it is an immense pool of
clear water, in which the overhanging shrubbery is finely reflected.
Its air of repose and quiet beauty makes it of interest to persons of
a retiring nature, and those to whom the vastness of mountain scenery
does not so pleasantly appeal.
We now pass under the great Gothic arch of Brickeen Bridge, and are
in Lough Leane, or the lower lake. It has an area of five thousand
acres, being five miles long, and three wide, with a very irregular
shore, comprising, high and low lands, coves and inlets, a few mountain
recesses, and a great variety of pleasing scenery. Its islands are
thirty in number, few of which, however, measure more than an acre
in extent. The largest are Rabbit Island, of more than twelve acres,
and Innisfallen, of twenty-one acres. Many of them have a fancied
resemblance to particular things, and so are named Lamb, Elephant, Gun,
Horse, Crow, Heron, Stag. The chief beauties of this great sheet of
water are its generally placid surface, the mountains bordering it on
the south and west, and its unlikeness to either of the others, in its
low lands, and its estates stretching off to the north and east. It
abounds in quiet nooks, bays, and inlets, breaking its margin; and the
barren rocks on one side contrast finely with the verdure of the shore
on the other.
Sir Walter Scott has given a magic charm to Loch Katrine by reciting
its legends; but, had he been so disposed, he could have given a like
halo to these lakes, for legends of O'Donoghue and of the McCarthys
abound, and supply such romantic materials as few countries can boast.
As a sample we quote but one:--
Once in seven years, on a fine morning, before the sun's rays have
begun to disperse the mist from the bosom of the lake, O'Donoghue
comes riding over it on an elegant snowwhite horse, with fairies
hovering about him, and strewing his path with flowers. As he
approaches his ancient residence, everything resolves itself
into its original condition and magnificence; the castle itself,
banquet halls, library, his prison, and his pigeon house, are as
they were in the olden time. Any one who desires, and is courageous
enough to follow him over the lake, may cross even the deepest
parts dry-footed, and ride with him into the caves of the adjoining
mountains, where his treasures are deposited and concealed; and
the daring visitor will receive a liberal gift for his company and
venture, but before the sun has arisen, and in the early twilight,
O'Donoghue recrosses the water, and vanishes amid the ruins of the
castle, to be seen no more till the next seven years have expired.
The part of the lake first entered is called Glena Bay, and as the
opposite shore, some three miles away, is low, the distant surface of
the lake seems to melt into the horizon, producing an effect not made
by either of the other lakes. Here on the little bay's shore is the
picturesque cottage of Lady Kenmare; and in the woods and highlands,
which for a couple and more miles bound the western shore of the lake,
are red deer, and the place was once a famous hunting-ground.
We pursue our course, not stopping at O'Sullivan's Cascade, a waterfall
consisting of three sections, situated a short distance back in the
forest; nor do we go over to Innisfallen Island, distant but two miles
to our left and in full view, though it is remarkably interesting on
account of historical associations.
Of all the islands of the lakes it is the most picturesque and
beautiful. It contains glades and lawns, thickets of flowering shrubs
and evergreens, with an abundance of arbutus and hollies of great
size and beauty, and also oak and ash trees of magnificent foliage
and growth. Innisfallen contains about twenty-one acres, and commands
one of the most desirable and lovely views of the entire lake and
surrounding mountain scenery. The most interesting object on it,
however, is the grand ruin of the ancient abbey, founded in the year
600, by St. Finian.
In this celebrated place the strange and interesting "Annals of
Innisfallen" were composed. They contain fragments of the Old
Testament, and a compendious, though not very valuable, annual history
down to the time of St. Patrick, and one more perfect from the
fourth to the fourteenth century. The originals, written more than
five hundred years ago, are now in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. A
translation of this work has been repeatedly attempted, but has never
been far enough advanced to issue from the press. The Annals are a
special record of Munster, but are filled with a dry record of great
crimes and their punishment, wars, lists of princes and clergy, and
elaborate accounts of the disputes and violent deaths of the ancient
kings of Kerry. They record that in 1180, seven hundred years ago, the
abbey was the place of securest deposit for all the gold and silver,
and the rare and rich goods of the country; that it was plundered by
Mildwin, son of Daniel O'Donoghue, as was also the church of Ardfert;
and that many persons were slain in the cemetery of the McCarthys.
In parting, the temptation is resistless to quote the lines of Moore
relating to this renowned and beautiful place:--
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine;
How fair thou art, let others tell,
While but to _feel_ how fair be mine.
Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee, on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.
We next pass on towards our place of landing. Before us and not far
off is Ross Island, situated on the eastern shore of the lake. It is
not really an island, but a peninsula, which at times of high water,
however, is difficult to reach without crossing a bridge. The place
has a finished look, having good lawns and many well-kept avenues and
walks. In 1804 a copper mine was opened on it, and for a time afforded
a large quantity of rich ore. Croker asserts that during the four years
it was worked, $400,000 worth of ore was disposed of at Swansea, at
a valuation of $200 per ton, and he informs us that "several small
veins of oxide of copper split off the main lode and ran towards the
surface. The ore of these veins was much more valuable than the other,
and consequently the miners--who were paid for the quality as well as
quantity--opened the smaller veins so near the surface that water broke
through into the mine, in such an overwhelming degree that an engine
of thirty-horse power could make no impression on the inundation." The
work was then abandoned. No doubt exists that these mines had been
worked in times of antiquity, perhaps by the Danes; for while working
them in 1804, rude stone hammers were found, and other unequivocal
proofs of preoccupation at an early time.
Ross Castle is a commanding and conspicuous object, standing isolated
near the shore, on comparatively level land. It is visible from almost
every part of the lake. This castle is generally visited from the land,
and is less than two miles from the town of Killarney. Though now in
ruins, it has a massive square tower and appendages of considerable
size, and is of pleasing outline. The dark stone walls are in good
preservation, and well decorated with ivy, which gives the ruin a most
stately, yet romantic and picturesque effect.
The grounds are well kept, and are free to the public; though a small
optional fee is in order to the lass who comes out of her cottage near
by, unlocks the door of the great tower, and, with a tongue not very
glib, tells what little she knows of local history. The castle was
built by the O'Donoghues, and was long occupied by that celebrated
family. In 1652 it was well defended; at the Revolution it held out
long against the English invaders, and was the last one in Munster to
surrender. On the 26th of July of that year Lord Muskerry, then holding
a commission of colonel under the Irish, being hard pushed, occupied
the castle, and defended himself against Lord Ludlow; and it was not
until he brought vessels of war (in history called _ships_) by the
lake, that the surrender was made. An old legend existed,--and legends
are powerful for good or for ill,--that Ross Castle was impregnable
till ships of war attacked it. These were brought, it may be, to take
advantage of the superstition. When they were in view, the heart of the
inmates of the fortress failed; they were paralyzed with superstitious
fear, and could not be induced to strike another blow. Lord Ludlow, in
his Memoirs, thus tells the story:--
We had received our boats [these were probably the _ships_], each
of which was capable of containing one hundred and twenty men. I
ordered one of them to be rowed about the water, in order to find
out the most convenient place for landing upon the enemy, which they
perceiving, thought fit, by timely submission, to prevent the danger
threatened them.
After the surrender five thousand Munster men laid down their arms, and
Lord Broghill, who had accompanied Ludlow, received a grant of £1,000
($5,000) yearly out of the estate of Lord Muskerry, the defender of the
castle.
We have ended our tour over the lakes, and have visited these justly
celebrated ruins, and are now ready for a walk of three quarters of
an hour to our hotel at Killarney. To say that we enjoyed the day,
even beyond our most sanguine anticipations, would not overcolor the
picture. The drive of the morning through that sublime old scenery, to
us so new; the ever fresh and pleasing emotions continually awakened;
the romantic ride through the Gap of Dunloe, where the mountains are
so near us, and we so near them; Kate's cottage; the Inferno-like look
of the Black Valley; the walk to the upper lake, and the fairy-like
sail over its waters,--all these recollections are enough for one day.
At 6 P. M., as the sun declined, and the mellow tints of its
evening rays were thrown aslant the waters, we wended our way home. Yet
were we not entirely content, but must make one more tour, this time to
Muckross Abbey.