I could have wished that the incidents which I am about to describe in
the following tale had taken place in some locality with a less
Celtic, and to English tongues a more pronounceable, name than
_Boher-na-Milthiogue._ I had at first commenced the tale with the word
itself, thus: "Boher-na-Milthiogue, though in a wild and remote part
of Ireland," etc. But I was afraid that, should an English reader take
up and open the book, he would at the very first word slap it together
again between the palms of his hands, saying, "Oh, that is quite
enough for me!" Now, as my English readers have done me vastly good
service on former occasions, I should be sorry to frighten them at the
outset of this new tale; and I have therefore endeavored to lead them
quietly into it. With my Irish friends no such circumlocution would
have been necessary. Perhaps, if I dissever and explain the word, it
may enable even my English readers in some degree to approach a
successful attempt at its pronunciation. I am aware, however, of the
difficulty they experience in this respect, and that their attempts at
some of our easiest names of Irish places are really
laughable--laughable, at least, to our Celtic familiarity with the
correct sound.
_Boher_ is the Irish for "bridge," and _milthiogue_ for a "midge;"
Boher-na-Milthiogue, "the midge's bridge."
There now, if my English friends cannot yet pronounce the word
properly, which I still doubt, they can at least understand what it
means. It were idle, I fear to hope, that they can see any _beauty_ in
it; and yet that it is beautiful there can be no Celtic doubt
whatever.
Perhaps it might have been well to have written thus far in the shape
of a preface; but as nobody nowadays reads prefaces, the matter would
have been as bad as ever. I shall therefore continue now as I had
intended to have commenced at first.
Boher-na-Milthiogue, though in a wild and remote part of Ireland, is
not without a certain degree of natural and romantic beauty, suiting
well the features of the scene in which it lies.
Towering above a fertile and well-cultivated plain frown and smile the
brother and sister mountains of Slieve-dhu and Slieve-bawn, the solid
masonry of whose massive and perpendicular precipices was built by no
human architect. The ponderous and scowling rocks of Slieve-dhu, the
brother, are dark and indistinct; while, separated from it by a narrow
and abrupt ravine, those of Slieve-bawn, the sister, are of a whitish
spotted gray, contrasting cheerfully with those of her gloomy brother.
There is generally a story in Ireland about mountains or rivers or old
ruins which present any peculiarity of shape or feature. Now it is an
undoubted fact, which any tourist can satisfy himself of, that
although from sixty to a hundred yards asunder, there are huge bumps
upon the side of Slieve-bawn, corresponding to which in every respect
as to size and shape are cavities precisely opposite them in the side
of Slieve-dhu. The story in this case is, that although formerly the
mountains were, like a loving brother and sister, clasped in each
other's arms, they quarrelled one dark night (I believe about the
cause of thunder), when Slieve-dhu in a passion struck his sister a
blow in the face, and staggered her back to where she now stands, too
far for the possibility of reconciliation; and that she, knowing the
superiority of her personal appearance, stands her ground, as a proud
contrast to her savage and unfeeling relative.
Deep straight gullies, worn by the winter floods, mark the sides of
both mountains into compartments, the proportion and regularity of
which might almost be a matter of surprise, looking like huge stripes
down the white dress of Slieve-bawn, while down that of Slieve-dhu
they might be compared to black and purple plaid.
"Far to the north," in the bosom of the minor hills, lies a glittering
lake--glittering when the sun shines; dark, sombre, and almost
imperceptible when the clouds prevail.
The origin of the beautiful name in which the spot itself rejoices I
believe to be this; but why do I say "believe?" It is a self-evident
and well-known fact.
Along the base of Slieve-bawn there runs a narrow _roadeen_, turning
almost at right angles through the ravine already mentioned, and
leading to the flat and populous portion of the country on the other
side of the mountains, and cutting the journey, for any person
requiring to go there, into the sixteenth of the distance by the main
road. In this instance the proverb would not be fulfilled, that "the
longest way round was the shortest way home." Across one of the
winter-torrent beds which runs down the mountain side, almost at the
entrance of the ravine, is a rough-built rustic bridge, at a
considerable elevation from the road below. To those approaching it
from the lower level, it forms a conspicuous and exceedingly
picturesque object, looking not unlike a sort of castellated defence
to the mouth of the narrow pass between the mountains.
This bridge, toward sunset upon a summer's evening, presents a very
curious and (except in that spot) an unusual sight. Whether it arises
from any peculiarity of the herbage in the vicinity, or the fissures
in the mountains, or the crevices in the bridge itself, as calculated
to engender them, it would be hard to say; but it would be impossible
for any arithmetician to compute at the roughest guess the millions,
the billions of small midges which dance in the sunbeams immediately
above and around the bridge, but in no other spot for miles within
view. The singularity of their movements, and the peculiarity of their
distribution in the air, cannot fail to attract the observation of the
most careless beholder. In separate and distinct batches of some
hundreds of millions each, they rise in almost solid masses until they
are lost sight of, as they attain the level of the heathered brow of
the mountain behind them, becoming visible again as they descend into
the bright sunshine that lies upon the white rocks of Slieve-bawn. In
no instance can you perceive individual or scattered midges; each
batch is connected and distinct in itself, sometimes oval, sometimes
almost square, but most frequently in a perfectly round ball. No two
of these batches rise or fall at the same moment. I was fortunate
enough to see them myself upon more than one occasion in high
perfection. They reminded me of large balls thrown up and caught
successively by some distinguished acrobat. During the
performance, a tiny little sharp whir of music fills the atmosphere,
which would almost set you to sleep as you sit on the battlement of
the bridge watching and wondering.
By what law of creation, or what instinct of nature, or, if by
neither, by what union of sympathy the movements of these milthiogues
are governed--for I am certain there are millions of them at the same
work in the same spot this fine summer's evening--would be a curious
and proper study for an entomologist; but I have no time here to do
more than describe the facts, were I even competent to enter into the
inquiry. Fancy say fifty millions of midges in a round ball, so
arranged that, under no suddenness or intricacy of movement, any one
touches another. There is no saying amongst them, "Keep out of my way,
and don't be _pushin'_ me," as Larry Doolan says.
So far, the thing in itself appears miraculous; but when we come to
consider that their motions, upward to a certain point, and downward
to another, are simultaneous, that the slightest turn of their wings
is collectively instantaneous, rendering them at one moment like a
black target, and another turn rendering them almost invisible, all
their movements being as if guided by a single will--we are not only
lost in wonder, but we are perfectly unable to account for or
comprehend it. I have often been surprised, and so, no doubt, may many
of my readers have been, at the regularity of the evolutions of a
flock of stares in the air, where every twist and turn of a few
thousand pairs of wings seemed as if moved by some connecting wire;
but even this fact, surprising as it is, sinks into insignificance
when compared with the movements of these milthiogues.
But putting all these inquiries and considerations aside, the simple
facts recorded have been the origin of the name with which this tale
commences.