WE left _Kyle-more_ next morning about 8.30,--the Irishman calling to
us from his window, “to give his love to the Bishop of London, and to
ask him what he fancied for the Chester Cup,”--travelling on an outside
car,--the most pleasant mode of conveyance for two persons, as you are
thus perfectly independent, can stop when and where you please, have
plenty of room, and can converse agreeably. Frank looked wistfully back
at the lake, like the pointer sent home at luncheon, or the hunter you
have ridden as your hack to the “meet,” or (a resemblance much more to
his taste), a _belle_, reluctantly leaving the ball-room, on the arm of
her drowsy but determined Pa.
Now we pass through the severe and solemn scenery of _the Killeries_,
compared by Inglis, Barrow, and Miss Martineau, to a Norwegian Fiord,
with its lakes so still, and cold, and black, and its mountains so bleak
and stern, that even the sea-fowl seemed to have deserted it with the
exception of a single cormorant, who looked as though he had committed
himself in some disreputable way, and had been banished here for
solitary confinement.
[Illustration: 135]
But the dreariness of the scene was soon delightfully relieved by
numbers of the peasantry, on their way to the Fair, or _Pattern_ as
it is called, being held on the festival of some _Patron_ Saint, at
_Leenane_; and the striking colours of their picturesque costume, red,
white, and blue, came out most effectively against the sombre darkness
of the back-ground. Boats, too, were crossing the water; and a soldier
in uniform, coming over in one of them, glowed on the gloomy lake, like
a bed of scarlet geraniums in the middle of a fallow field. Some were
on foot; but more on horseback, almost every steed carrying
double--husbands and wives, mothers and sons, brothers and sisters,
and for aught I know, “one lovely arm was stretched for,”--nothing in
particular, “and one was round her lover.” The bare feet hung gracefully
down, and the eyelids, as we passed, hung gracefully down also, and hid
those bright Irish eyes. Well, “there is a shame, which is glory and
grace,” the most beautiful ornament that woman wears, and nowhere worn
with a more becoming, but unaffected, dignity, than here by the maidens
of Connamara.
Saddles did not seem to be known, and the bridles, chiefly, were of
rope or twisted hay. As to the Fair itself, I imagine that the meeting
partook more of a social than of a commercial character, a few sheep
being the principal live-stock which we saw exposed for sale. Several
stalls exhibited, for the refreshment of visitors, large cakes or
bannocks, with currants at an incredible distance from each other (the
white bread, _per se_, being, doubtless, a sufficient novelty and treat
to many), and any amount of apples. Indeed Paddy seems almost as fond
of _pommes d'arbre_ as he is of _pommes de terre_; and in Stations,
Steamers, and Streets, they have all but a monopoly of the market.
The landlord of the neat-looking inn at _Leenane_, a fine, tall, manly
fellow, reminding us that we had now entered into the country of “big
Joyce,” came forth and welcomed us cheerily, as we stopped to change
our horse, and almost induced us to stay and see the fun of the fair,
together with “the hundred and fifty couple, which would stand up in
the afternoon for a jig.” But we had no time to lose, having to meet
the _Clifden Car_, at _the Cross Roads_, en route to _Galway_; and as
we saw, shortly afterwards, two waggons loaded with constables, who were
going to preserve order, we did not regret our departure, nor fail to
congratulate each other on the unbroken soundness of our Saxon skulls.
We took with us a new driver from _Leenane_, who seemed somewhat
depressed at leaving the Fair, and was the least sociable Irishman I
ever met. But one does not desire conversation amid this impressive
scenery; and as the only information which he volunteered was this, that
“_Hens Castle_,” near _the Mauwt Hotel_, was built in one night by
a cock and hen grouse,--a statement which he appeared to believe
implicitly,--I don't suppose that we lost much from his taciturnity. The
misfortune was, that, though his tongue was tied, his hat was not,--an
eccentric, light-hearted “wide-awake,” which would keep skimming past
us, and hurrying back to Leenane, always starting off with a fresh
impetus, as the owner stooped to secure it. As time was precious,
Frank offered to fasten the article to his head, with a large, gold
breast-pin, by way of nail, and a heavy stone, which he picked up by the
wayside (during a little walk of some two miles up hill), as hammer;
but he was repulsed with considerable asperity. At last, to our great
delectation, the offensive head-gear was drawn out of a boggy pool, in
such a limp and unpleasant condition, that the proprietor, after a brief
survey, indignantly sat upon it during the remainder of our journey,
vesting his cranium in a pocket-handkerchief, which was, indeed, a sight
to see. With a large bunch of heather, which, I regret to confess, we
could not refrain from inserting in the collar of his coat, and
“dulce est tomfoolere in loco?
he presented an appearance “well worthy of hob-servation,” (as they say
at the wax-work), and which would have raised an immediate mob in any
street of London.
We arrived at _the cross roads_, in spite of the Fabian policy pursued
by the volatile hat, in good time for the _Galway_ car, and soon found
ourselves leaning over the pretty bridge at _Oughterarde_, and
bidding farewell to _Connamara_. It has been, indeed, a privilege and
refreshment to wander amid these glorious scenes, where
“Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise,”
and where nature, with a calm, majestic dignity, which must impress, and
ought to improve, claims at once our reverence and love, awes us with
her grandeur, but charms us more with her smile.
The tourist readily foregoes and forgets the temporary loss of little
comforts to which he has been accustomed. There is but one really
great deprivation to which he is subject,--the want of ladies' society.
English ladies can go, do go, and will go everywhere; but, generally
speaking, they are unwilling, wisely unwilling, to encounter a wet
day on an Irish car, or the carpetless, comfortless rooms of the
_Connaviara_ inns.
Indeed, the fine gentleman, who chiefly loves the tips of his
moustaches, the sleeve-links of his shirt, and the toes of his gleaming
boots,--the dandy, [Greek word], who can't live without his still
champagne, by Jove, his soups and sauces, and golden plovers, his
Nesselrode pudding, and _petit verre en suite_,--will find sad
discomfiture in _Connamara_. Neither Apicius Coelius nor Lady
Clutterbuck have prepared the way for his daintyship, and when the
bacon, which accompanies the breastless fowls, shall display its
prismatic hues, his forlorn spirit shall sigh in vain for the pleasant
hams of Piccadilly, while, in vain, he imprecates on the unskilful cook
the fate of Mr. Richard Rouse. 1
1 A cook, who, in the year 1530, attempted to poison Fisher,
Bishop of Rochester, and was boiled to death--out of
compliment to his profession. See Froude's History of
England, vol. i., p. 288. A writer in the Athenaum (Jan. 13,
1844,) remarks, in a very amusing article on the Irish
Census, “There is no cookery in Ireland, because there is
nothing to cook. We occasionally, to be sure, throw them a
bone of contention, and they make a broil of it. Their
cookery goes no further.”
At morn, moreover, lazily turning in his bed to ring for valet or
waiter, how shall his superb dignity be perturbed to find, that there
exists no _belle alliance_ between the upper and lower house, and that
his highness must go to the stair top, and hallo, for whatever his
emergencies require. No marble bath awaits him now, with its tepidly
congenial joys; but there stands at his door a little tub, which he
contemplates as ruefully as the stork of the fable the shallow dish of
the fox, and which just contains a sufficiency of water to perplex a rat
of irresolute mind, whether he should walk or swim. The accommodation
is, in fact, so limited, that Frank, in attempting some daring flight of
ablution, broke his tiny bath to pieces, and away streamed the water to
announce the fact down stairs.
[Illustration: 141]
Up came the astonished waiter, and surveying the wreck with a sorrowful
countenance, exclaimed, “By the powers, your onner, its Meary's
looking-glass you've been and ruinated intirely!--and how will she kape
herself nate and daysint?” subsequently explaining to us, that this
vessel, filled with clear spring water, had served, prior to its
dissolution, as the mirror of the pretty housemaid. I had my doubts as
to the tale of a tub; but Frank, at all events, thought it his duty to
have an interview with the bereaved Meary, and returned therefrom with
one of his ears considerably enriched in colouring.
I strongly recommend the tourist to make himself a C.B., by procuring
a portable bath of waterproof material, such as is now made for
travellers. He will then have no difficulty to contend with beyond a
slight indisposition on the part of the waiters to supply him liberally
with the element required. “Bedad,” said one of them to me, “if the
rain's to be presarved, and carried up stairs, and trated in this
fashion, I'm thinking it'ill get so mighty fond of our attintions, that
it'll never lave us at all, at all!”
Again, the fine gentleman may be disconcerted to find that windows
very generally decline to be opened, or, being open, prefer to keep so,
except in case of his looking out of them, when they are down upon his
neck, like a guillotine. His looking-glass, too, just as it is brought
to a convenient focus, may perhaps, dash madly round, as though urged by
an anxiety, which it could not repress, to assure him, in white chalk,
that it really cost three and sixpence!
But what are these trivial inconveniences, which amuse, more than they
annoy, to “a man as calls himself a man,” and when he has such active,
cheerful, untiring servants, ever ready to do all in their power to
please him? The cuisine is certainly a little queer, but he who, with a
_Connamara_ appetite, cannot enjoy _Connamara_ fare, salmon, fresh from
its lakes, eggs newly laid, excellent bread and butter, the maliest of
potatoes (“laughing at you, and with their coats unbuttoned from the
heat,” but perhaps a trifle underboiled for our taste, until we learn to
like them “with a bone in them”), together with the best of whiskey, and
our Burton beer; he who cannot sleep in a clean _Connamara_ bed, after a
day among its mountains and lakes, nor say with Bellarius,
“Come; our stomach
Will make what's homely savoury; weariness
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard,--
why he's not the man for _Galway_, and had better keep away from it.