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There are words which, although unnoticed in the delightful treatises of
the Dean of Westminster 1 (may his fame increase!) have a strange
power upon the heart,--words which can ring for us, listening by the
brookside, and in arbours and meadow-haunts once more, the joy-bells
of a former mirth, or toll above past sorrows and buried hopes their
muffled and mournful peal. Breathes there, for instance, a man with
soul so dead, who can hear of a _primrose bank, or a cowslip-ball, or a
roly-poly pudding, or a sillabub, or a soap bubble, or a pantomime,
or of Robinson Crusoe_, and not feel himself, though it be but for a
moment, a happy child again? And do we not realise, on the other hand,
in all their brief intensity, our earliest sorrows, when memory suggests
to us those solemn sounds of woe, _measles, big-brother, ghosts,
dentists, castor-oil?_
1 Dr. Trench, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin.
And who (to pass on to boyhood) can ever hear of _foot-ball_, especially
if Tom Brown speak, without longing for a kick to goal? Who can be
reminded of _the river_, and not remember those summer days, when, nude
and jubilant, we took first a preliminary canter among the haycocks, and
then “a header” into the deep, cold stream? or, again, those merry days
of winter, when, from our slippery skates we took--well, anything but “a
_header_” upon its glibly frozen surface? On the other hand, who does not
felicitate himself that he has arrived at man's estate, when he recalls
those awful _impositions_ which he still believes have softened his
brain, or when his memory (not to particularise) is tingling at the idea
of _birch_, and contemplating a “_Visitation of Arms and Seats_” long
anterior to Mr. Bernard Burke's?
Chiefly, perhaps, when we come to shave, or, more wisely, to cherish
instead of destroying (with many a grimace and groan), those healthful
adjuncts to manly beauty, “_quas Natura sud sponte suggerit_” is felt
this great influence of words. I have seen the cheek of a pallid
friend suddenly to assume the hues of a peony, the rich crimson tint of
dining-room curtains, at mention of the name of “_Rose_;” and I remember
how a Brasenose man, whose fresh ruddy countenance was much more
suggestive of Burton-upon-Trent than it was of Burton upon Melancholy,
and whom we called Chief Mourner, because he was always first after the
bier, would become colourless, and “pale his ineffectual fire,” at the
very sound of _Blanche_. Nor do I see any discredit in confessing my
own inability to hear certain sweet Christian-Names (sixteen in all, but
nine in particular), without emotions of a troublous, but delightful,
character.
And as at this era, just as in the two preceding it, there are special
words which bring joy and animation to man (let me briefly instance
_gone-away, mark-woodcock, sillery, deux-temps)_, so there are terms
of terror (e.g. _jilt, tailor, Little-Go, lurit-server, poacher,
vulpicide_), of potent and cruel import.
I might amplify for my readers this etymological treat. I might
expatiate on the different effects produced by. the same word upon
different minds, _videlicet_, by the word _Tally-ho_, as heard at the
covert-side by sportsman or by muff, by the man who rides with hounds,
or the skirting path-finder who rides without them; but I have already
travelled by a too circuitous route to my conclusion,--that it is sweet
to hear the mere names of those things, which are pleasant and lovable
in themselves, and that to those who have seen the Irish lakes, the word
_Killarney_ is “a joy for ever.”
Coming so immediately from the wild grandeur of Connamara to these
scenes of tranquil beauty, I think that our first view of the Lakes, as
we left the Victoria Hotel, was rather a disappointment. The landscape
(or waterscape?) was so calm and still, that it had somewhat of a
dioramic effect, and one almost expected to see it move slowly onwards
to an accompaniment of organ music. But as the olive lends a zest to
generous wine, even so this tiny discontentment served but to enhance
our subsequent and full fruition. For, once upon the waters, you become
forthwith convinced, not only how impossible it is to exaggerate the
beauties of _Killarney_ (as well might a painter essay to flatter or
improve a sunset), but for pen or pencil to do them justice.
There is such infinite variety, from the white and golden lilies,
(which, close to land, look like miniature canoes, from which fairy
watermen have just sprung lightly ashore), to the towering heights
and aeries; such diversity of tint and outline in the mountains,
tree-clothed from crown to base; in those “islets so freshly fair;” and
in those dancing waters, which raise their smiling waves to kiss the
flowers and ferns; such contrasts, and yet such a perfect whole, of wood
and water, “harmoniously confused;” such transformations, wrought by
cloud and breeze, yet always such complete repose; that the eye can
never weary.
We hired a boat, and set forth for _Innisfallen_, just at that
delightful time between sunset and moonrise,
“When in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper, on the front of Heaven,
His glittering gem displays.”
Presently, the moon came up above those lofty hills, 1 and as bugle
music from the returning boats was wafted over the shining waters, and
lost itself among the mountains, we turned to each other, Frank and I,
at the same moment, with those thrilling lines,
“O hark! O hear! how thin and clear;
And thinner, clearer, farther going.
O, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying.
Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying!”
1 In a _Trip to Ireland_, by a Cambridge M. A. (1858), there
is written, gravely written, at page 18, the following most
original simile: “Just over yon steep acclivity hangs a
crescent moon, like a silver knocker on the star-studded
gate of heaven, and one can almost fancy some angel-warder
will, ere long, break the silence with the gracious
invitation, 'Come up hither.'”
Indeed, you would suppose that Tennyson must have written this
heart-stirring song at _Killarney_, did not the engraving prefixed to
it, represent so different and dismally inferior a scene. To look and
listen, as we rowed slowly onwards, seemed to be more happiness than
we, undeserving, could at once enjoy; and it required a contemplation of
meaner things, to convince us that the whole scene was not, in the words
of Ireland's poet, writing at _Killarney_, and of it,--
“One of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a light summer-haze, o'er the poet's warm thought.”
So we lit our pipes, and then the boatmen, whose colloquial powers
we generally evoked, as we tendered the calumet, or rather the
tobacco-pouch, of friendship, began to tell us, how, once upon a time,
it was all dry land about here; how some indiscreet, but anonymous
individual had removed the lid from an enchanted well; and how the
enchanted well had set to work, in consequence, and had flooded the
valley in which stood the palace of King O'Donoghue, so suddenly, that a
facetious sentinel had only just time to shout “All's Well!” at the top
of his voice, when the waters, rising above his chin, and entering his
vocal orifice, put a stop to further elocution.
It does not appear, as ordinary minds might have expected, that the
prospects or spirits of _the Donoghue_ were at all damped by this
proceeding; and though his property seemed to be hopelessly “dipped,”
and his capital to be sunk beyond all recovery, he contrived not only
to get his head above water, but even to ride the high horse afterwards.
For the boatmen say, that the royal edifice still remains, with all its
inmates, unaltered and unalterable, at the bottom of the lake, and there
the king entertains his court, with fish-dinners and aquatic fêtes on
an unprecedented scale of magnificence, save when requiring air and
exercise, he rides over the waters on a snowy steed, and turns the whole
locality into an Irish “Vale of White Horse.”
“And there's plinty as has seen him, your 'onnour,” (so said the bow-oar
historian), “and will take their swear of it--glowry to God!” Very
little glowry, thought I, from the perjury of these delectable
witnesses, who must have seen this quaint display of horsemanship
through a “summer haze” of whiskey, and been very deliriously drunk. But
our boat touches _Innisfallen_.
Everyone falls in love with this sweet little island. It has such grand,
old, giant trees, such charming glades and undulations, “green and of
mild declivity,” that here, childhood might play, manhood make love, and
old age meditate, unwearied, from morn to night. Mr. Grieve would, in
spite of his name, be joyful, to wander through its vistas and alleys
green, and find fresh scenes for his canvas. What dear little glens,
what “banks and braes” for the fairies. Can this be Titania coming
towards us over the moonlit sward, and leaning upon the arm of Oberon?
No; it is a couple of nuptial neophytes, looking so happy, that, as they
pass, I could take off my hat and cheer. Ah, if fair _lnnisfallen_ is so
beautiful to us poor bachelors by ordinary moonlight, what must it be to
Benedict, to the man in the moon of honey? What must be the happiness
of my Lord Castlerosse, the eldest son of the Lord of the Isles of
Killarney, who has just brought home his bride? 1
1 August, 1858.
Were I ever constrained to be a monk and celibate, I should wish my
monastery to be at _lnnisfallen_, and I admire the taste of St. Finian
(an ancestor, I presume, of Mr. Finn, our estimable host at the Victoria
Hotel), who, some thirteen hundred years ago, selected this island for
his retreat. The picturesque ruins of an ancient abbey still attest,
that long after his time, men sought, in this sylvan solitude, that
peace which they found not in the world.
Sweet _Innisfallen!_ “thy praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine,”
so lofty indeed, that my obtuse understanding is unable to read some of
their music, as, for instance, where Moore sings,
“The steadiest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine.”
And, therefore, in plain prose, but with a full heart, Good night!