[Illustration: 198]
HAPPY and expectant, as two young cricketers, who, having made no “end
of a score” in their first innings, go forth a-gain to the wicket, we
started next morning in the _currus militarius_, or Car of Miles, for
another joyous day at _Killarney_. Stopping at the entrance of the town,
we went into the Cathedral (R.C.), a very handsome edifice of beautiful
proportions, in the severe, Early-English style. The carving in stone
over the high altar, in the Chapel of the Sacrament, and especially in
the exquisite symmetry of the figures in the arches of the doorways, is
exceedingly chaste and clear, and some Connamara marble about one of
the lesser altars has a very pleasing effect. Not so the numerous
confessionals, which, with their new wood and bright drapery, are
somewhat suggestive of wardrobes, and detract, as novelties always do,
from the ecclesiastical aspect of the interior.
Hard by, upon the hill, stands the spacious Asylum for the Insane,
sadly reminding us of poor Pugin, who designed the Cathedral; and,
less painfully, of Swift's last act of penitent charity, the bequest of
£12,000, nearly all he had to bequeath, for the erection of a similar
institution.
_Egans Bog-oak and Arbutus warehouse_ well deserves a visit. Here you
learn from a ledger, opening, as ledgers will, at a brilliant galaxy
of noble names, which makes a commoner's eyes wink, how the Right
Honourable the Earl of Cash bought an elaborate table for my Lady's
boudoir, and how Rear-Admiral Sir Bowline Bluff made purchase of a
Backgammon board, marvellously inlaid, over which I venture to surmise,
he has ere this discoursed in stormy language, when the gout and the
dice have been against him. Let us tread, softly and at a distance, in
these illustrious footprints, and buy our meek memorials of Killarney.
Hence onward to the _Tore Cascade_, descending its silver staircase amid
green trees and graceful ferns,--the latter including, as we were told,
the rare _Trichomanes speciosum_. Here there is a lovely landscape of
the _Middle and Lower Lakes_, and there were seats wherefrom to enjoy
it, until those despicable snobs, who had mutilated the trees in
_Rohnaines Island_, threw them (sweet gentlemen!) down the waterfall.
And it's O for a _tête-à-tête_ with the principal performer, in the
unbroken seclusion of a twenty-four foot ring!
But we must think more wisely, as we approach the solemn ruins of
_Mucross_, than of punching our fellow-creatures' heads, though even
here upon the very tombs, the miscreants have been at work,--disporting
themselves, like filthy ghouls and vampires--and scrabbling upon the
stones, as madmen will.
So much remains, both of Church and Abbye, that imagination readily
supplies what is gone. Here in the Choir, where that ill-tempered
looking tourist is reprimanding his wife for giving a beggar twopence,
the brothers of St. Francis of Assisi were wont to sing holy psalms; and
there in the Cloisters, where those two gaily-dressed French girls are
admiring the gigantic yew-tree, and wondering what has become of “_ce
cher Jules_,” (whom I apprehend to be a lover, but who comes round the
corner, a poodle, dreadful to contemplate!) there
“Ever-musing melancholy dwelt,”
and there paced the pale Franciscan, in the sombre habit of his order,
and girded with his hempencord.
Laugh on, sweet Stephanie, joyous Josephine (I heard their names from
Mamma in search); but be not cruel with your charms, for Love, unloved,
can still change men to monks,--forlorn and wretched, though in crowded
streets, as he, of whom Percy sang:
“Within these holy cloysters long
He languisht, and he dyed
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'playning of her pride.”
There are some beautiful ferns among and about these ruins, but being
a very poor Polypodian, or Scolopendrian (or whatever may be
the scientific title of a Fernist), I only recognised the
Hart's-tongue,--with its fructification arranged like a miniature plan
of ships in order of battle,--and of this I gathered some very fine
fronds, and put them in my hat, as will appear hereafter.
Passing through Mr. Herberts beautiful demesne, by his pleasant home
(note the St. John's-wort by the wayside), his offices, and yards,
wherein the newest agricultural implements cause one to sigh more than
ever for landlords, resident and liberal as he,--by the copper-mine,
rich and productive until the envious waters interfered, we reach the
Middle Lake, and our boat, waiting for us, thereupon.
Tourists, who have written about the Irish Lakes have made but little
mention of this _Middle, Mucross, or Tore Lake_. Like the youngest of
three fair sisters, she is kept in the background by their proximity
and prior claims, being, moreover, an unobtrusive, gentle beauty, of a
subdued and retiring air, not demanding the admiration she deserves. But
were there such a scene of tranquil loveliness six miles from any of
our great manufacturing towns, it would be a refreshment, and a blessing
evermore, to thousands of our weary artisans, just as “the Pool,” by
Sutton Coldfield, (one of the prettiest spots in England) is the holiday
resort and resting-place of the working men of Birmingham.
Leaving this sweet seclusion, and rowing under the picturesque bridge
which connects the islands of Dinisk and Brickeen, we come once more
into the bay of Glena, and the “cottage near a wood.” Here, climbing the
hill, and choosing a position which commanded a most delightful view,
we enjoyed the sandwich and scene. Descending, we were horrified to hear
that “whetstone of the teeth,” the bagpipes, droning away close to our
boat, and abominable to both of us as a dialogue between connubial cats,
or a class of schoolboys pointing slate pencils. But “_Ars longa_,” art
is long-headed; and so we tossed up which of us, preceding the other,
should go down, pay the piper, and keep him in conversation until his
friend had reached the boat. This service of conspicuous gallantry fell
to me, and if ever man deserved the Victoria Cross, I won it there and
then.
They say, but I don't believe it, that the red-deer, who inhabit these
mountains, admire this infernal machine; and, in proof thereof, the Rev.
Mr. Wright, in his Guide to Killarney, quotes the following anecdote
from Playford's History of Music:--
“As I travelled some years ago near Royston, I met a herd of stags,
about twenty, on the road, following a bagpipe and violin, which when
the music played they went forward, when it ceased they all stood still,
and in this manner they were brought out of Yorkshire to Hampton Court.”
Next we rowed to _O'Sullivans Cascade_, foaming down its triple falls;
and here finding some shamrock, and feeling very Irish, we liberally
adorned our coats and hats with it. To our surprise and disappointment,
upon our return, the boatmen appeared to be perfectly indifferent to
this enthusiastic display of their national emblem; and it subsequently
transpired, to our very severe discomfort, that we had ornamented our
persons with some vulgar trefoil, which did not resemble the shamrock
at all, at all. 1 It vexed one's vanity to have performed unconsciously
both a Guy and a Jack-in-the-Green; and the effect produced reminded me
of the answer of a Nottinghamshire labourer, in reply to my inquiries
concerning his friend, “To tell you the truth, Sir, Bill's been and
married his mestur, and it's _gloppened him a good-ish bit!_”
1 “We believe it to be an ascertained fact, that the
shamrock of the old Irish was not a trefoil at all, but the
wood-sorrel, _Oxalis acetosella_”--Gardener? Chronicle, 7th
August, 1858.
Leaving to our right the numerous islets of the Lower Lake (there are
thirty-three of them in all), and the ruins of Ross Castle, once the
home of the O'Donoghues, we pass by fair Innisfallen, and, reaching our
landing-place, separate awhile; Frank starting afresh to fish, and I
returning to the inn.
In a cozy corner of the coffee-room, I began now to transcribe a little
poem of a sentimental kind, which had suggested itself to my thoughts
during our excursion. Looking up from time to time, as Poets (like
poultry) will, when drinking at the Pierian stream, I was much offended
to see several persons in different parts of the room, evidently amusing
themselves at my expense. A joke loses its festive character, when
it falls upon one's own head, especially when that head is profusely
crowned, as I soon discovered mine to be, with fronds of the
Hart's-tongue Fern,--collected at Mucross, but entirely forgotten,
until, bending lower than usual, I saw--
“frondes volitare caducas.”
I am afraid that I did not wear my chaplet so gracefully as Dante his,
in that beautiful picture by Scheffer: on the contrary, I felt quite
as ill at ease and uncomfortable as an Oxford friend, who, having won a
steeple-chase last winter in France, was sent for by the Préfêt of the
place, and _crowned with a laurel wreath!_ What a pleasing harmony there
must have been between his Bays and his dirty Boots!
Completing my manuscript, and leaving it in our joint-stock
writing-case, I took a walk to the Post-Office at Killarney; and I do
not think that it was at all gentlemanly in Francis to tamper with my
poetry, on his return from fishing; erasing the alternate lines, and
substituting rubbish of his own, as follows:--
KILLARNEY.
When the pale moon streaks
_My Macgillicuddy's 1 cheeks,_
And the day-god shoots
_Through the shutters, oped by Boots;_
1 He persisted in addressing me by this extraordinary
appellative throughout our sojourn at Killarney.
And from sweet lnnisfallen,--
_Jolly place to walk with gal in!_
Which so lovely, and so lone, is,--
_Why, it ain't, its full of conies_, 1
Hark! a voice comes o'er the wave,
_Now, old Buffer, up and shave!_
As I watch the Heron's wing,--
_More fool you, you'll cut your chin!_
Sailing stately, slowly flapping,--
_Better work away with Mappin!_
Ah, sweet morning's face is fair,--
_Not so yours, soap'd like that ere!_
And she dons her summer garment,--
_Get on yours, you lazy varmint!_
Jubilant in all her graces,
_As if going to Hampton races,_
Smiling, proud in all her riches,--
_Where's that fellow put my-?_
This good news to man narrating--
_“Plaze, your 'onour, breakfast's waiting,_
&c. &c. &c.
1 Or if it isn't, “Rabbit Island,” which is close to, ought
to be. See remarks by the Aurora Borealis in the Christmas
number of the _Edinburgh Review_; Mrs. Hemans, _Racing
Calendar_, vol. 408; and Bendigo, passim.--Frank C.
But Frank is one of those men with whom it is impossible to be angry;
and if he were standing in his thickest shooting-boots, on your most
susceptible corn, he would smile in your face with such exceeding
suavity, that you would almost consider the proceeding funny. So we sat
down to discuss, in affectionate unison, the delicious trout which he
had caught (how could I eat his fish and be sulky?), amplifying our
ordinary allowance of sherry, in honour of the Naiads and Dryads in
general, and of the Naiads, who look after the trout, in particular.
These libations, assisted by potheen and pipe, make us very cheery
in the smoke-room. Frank declared that I talked for two hours about
Absenteeism to a Lincolnshire farmer, who was fast asleep; and I
certainly heard him discoursing, with a mimetic brogue, upon the state
of Ireland, as though he had lived in the country all his life. So,
desirous to keep ourselves “within the limits of becoming mirth,” and
not to induce that metaphysical state, “_quand celui qui parle n'entend
rien, et celui qu'écouté n'entend plus_,” we judiciously retired to
roost.
“That very night, ere gentle sleep,” with “slumber's chain had bound
me,” and “as I lay a-thinking,” I composed a little drama, for the
benefit of Frank; and, rising early next morning, brought out upon the
stage, or rather upon the passage,--
THE BOOTS AT THE EAGLE.
AN EXTRAVAGANZA, IN TWO ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONAL
Frank and the Boots.
ACT I.
_The scene, like the hero, is laid in bed. The room is strewed with
wearing apparel in great disorder. The appearance of the candle suggests
the probability of its having been extinguished by a blow from a
clothes-brush. Soft music from the Somnambula which changes to “Who's
dat Knocking at the Door?”_
_Frank, (awaking)_ Who's there?
_Boots_. Sure, your 'onour, it's Boots.
_Frank._ Well, what do you want?
_Boots._ Plaze, yer 'onour, man's brought yer a hagle.
_Frank._ Who sent him? How much does he want for it? _Boots_. Miles, yer
'onour, Miles the guide. The man'll take tin shillings, yer 'onour; and
he's an illigant hagle, with a power o' bake.
_Frank_. Tell him I'll have it, and let him wait till I come down.
_Boots_. I will, yer 'onour.
_Curtain_
(Pulled aside by Frank, to facilitate conversation)
_Falls._
_Interval of half an hour, during which I go to bed in high spirits, and
Frank dreams that the Zoological Society have offered him a hundred for
his new purchase._
ACT II.
_Scene, as before._
_Frank, (aroused by renewed knocking)_ Now then! what the deuce is up?
_Boots_. There's another man, yer 'onour, wants to sell you a hagle.
_Frank_. Oh, hang it! Tell him I've got one, and ask the gentleman in
Number Twenty whether he would like to buy it.
_Boots_. I will, yer 'onour.
*****
_Boots. (Returning after a putative intervieiv with No. 20.)_ Plaze, yer
'onour, the gintleman's bin and bought him, and I was to give his best
love to yer 'onour, and his hagle's waiting in the passage, to fight yer
'onour's hagle for a new hat.
During this latter sentence, my voice, I regret to say, went back to its
ordinary tone; Frank was out of bed in an instant; and I had only just
time to regain No. 20, when a heavy boot went by with great velocity,
falling, as Frank afterwards told me, at the feet of an astonished
elderly clergyman, who, coming out of his room at that instant, and
seeing my friend in his cuttysark, evidently inferred an escape from the
asylum, and bolted immediately, self and door.
But sure enough, when we came down to breakfast, there was a veritable
eagle at the door of the hotel, wild with anger, in an iron cage, and
the property of a small tourist, who was starting for Connamara
with this delectable companion, a large Arbutus table, ditto case
of Killarney ferns, and a hillock of general luggage. With these
_impedi-menta_, his estates appeared to be sufficiently in-cumbered, and
I was not surprised that he declined to purchase a shillelagh, 1 with a
head about the size of his own, although solemnly assured that “it had
been cut in the dark moon”--an inestimable advantage doubtless, though
to me the meaning of the sentence is as obscure as the luminary in
question.
[Illustration; 212]
Alas, alas! our own luggage is now brought down, and we are awaiting our
bill somewhat curiously, after the recent revival in the _Times_ 2
of complaints, commenced by Arthur Young in 1776, and repeated by Mr.
Wright in 1822, on the subject of Killarney _charges_. But we both spoke
in favour of the bill, and it was carried through the house (_viâ_ the
lobby, to the bar) without any division, except that of the sum total
between Frank and myself. You cannot have guides, and horses, and boats,
and buglers (especially where the demand is temporary and irregular),
without paying highly for them; but these expenses are fairly stated
before they are incurred, and decrease materially if you prolong your
stay (as we would fain have done), and begin to find your own amusement,
afoot, or in a boat.
1 Shillelagh is, or was, a famous wood in Wicklow, from
which the timber was brought for the roof of Westminster
Hall.
2 In the autumn of 1858.
Farewell, _Killarney!_--How often, far away from thy scenes of beauty,
have I, leaning back with closed eyes, beheld thee, pictured by memory,
and engraved by fond imagination! How often have I essayed to realize
thee in the subtle semblances of Art!--How often, in the clouds of
sunset (and here most happily), have I rejoiced to trace thy tranquil
waters and thy tree-clad hills!--and still, as some lover, clasping with
a sigh the likeness of his darling, yearns for her living self, so long
I for that happy hour when I shall return to thee, gladly, as thine
eagles soaring homeward, and see thee face to face.
CHAPTER XVI. FROM KILLARNEY TO GLENGARRIFF
The omnibus took us to the town of Killarney, and there we mounted the
Glengarriff Car. People do not look particularly wise when seated, in
a public street, upon a vehicle to which no horses are attached; but
we were anxious to secure our places on “the Lake side,” and being
surrounded by the pretty dealers in arbutus-ware (there were two, who,
I am convinced, could have persuaded _St. Senanus_ to buy a set of
blue-bottle studs in bog-oak), we did not feel at all uncomfortable.
But even Irish cars must fulfil their mission; and we started at last,
bristling with paper knives.
Halting awhile, to take up passengers at the Mucross Hotel, we were
again besieged by another bevy of these fancy timber merchants; and here
a little scene occurred, which, however trivial it may appear from my
feeble account of it, was very touching in reality. A woman, who had
been, you could see, as pretty in her prime as the prettiest of her
younger companions, but whose beauty was fast fading away, came and
offered her basket to a coarse specimen of the genus “_Gent_,” who was
seated on our side of the car, and who very abruptly, and thoughtlessly
I dare say,--
“But evil is wrought for want of thought,
As well as want of heart,”--
repulsed her, saying, “that he should buy from the young uns if he
bought at all.” I saw a look of intense pain pass over her face, as
though she were hurt at heart; and, although the others made way for
her, with sweet sisterly kindness, when Frank called her to him, and
though he bought her most elaborate bracelets, and I a box of cunning
workmanship, designed, I believe, for gloves, but subsequently used by
a small niece of mine as a bed for her youngest doll, the sliding lid,
drawn up to the sleeper's chin, forming a counterpane of unrivalled
splendour; although, I say, we did all in our power to comfort, the
storm-clouds, when we left, hung heavily over her, and the first
rain-drops glistened in her pale-blue eyes.
Take heed, ye maidens beautiful (I feel a little saturnine this morning,
and shall put no more lemon in my punch, whatever Francis may say), be
ye Belles of the Park or the Pattern, to this extremity ye must come at
last! You, Lady Constance Plantagenet, who promised to waltz with me at
the County Ball, and pretended to have forgotten (though it was written
upon those gem-studded tablets), when Lord Hanwell (he has at least
three slates off his roof, and always went, when in the Artillery, by
the _sobriquet_ of “Lincoln and Bennett,” being notoriously as mad as
_two_ hatters), was pleased to invite you to the dance! And you, Susan
Holmes, beauty of our village, looking coldly now at Will Strong, the
keeper, the hardest hitter in “our Eleven,” and the handsomest fellow
in the parish, because the young squire's friend, with the big moustache
(Will wanted to know whether he came from _Skye_), made a fool of you at
the Servants' Ball! You, Lady Constance, ignoring your engagements,
and you, Susan Holmes, oblivious of the fact that your papa is only a
blacksmith; be assured, both of you, that the light will fade from those
flashing eyes, and the roses will be blanched on those glowing cheeks,
and that--
“Violets pluckt, the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow again.”
What moral deduction can I draw but this:--Marry, marry, ye damsels
beautiful, the men whom ye love _at heart_; and so perpetuate your
loveliness, and live again in your daughters!
The cold salmon, on which we lunched at _Kenmare_, was so especially
delicious, that when I turned to Frank, an hour afterwards, on the car,
and asked him what o'clock it was, not perceiving that he was asleep,
he murmured something about “a slice of the thin;” and the tourist in
Ireland finds this fish so good and abundant, that he almost begins to
apprehend “a favourable eruption” of scales, and feels disposed to snap
at the larger flies which come within the prehensiveness of his dental
powers.
[Illustration: 218]
The little town of _Kenmare_ is very pleasantly and healthfully placed.
Mr. Frazer says that the bay, by which it stands, is the most beautiful
in all Ireland, but we did not see enough of it to corroborate this
grand eulogium. With the exception of the handsome Suspension Bridge,
neat Church, and National Schools, the buildings are mean and miserable.
To judge from the size of the Post-Office and “Bridewell,” there is very
little correspondence or crime. At the broken windows of “the Female
Industrial School,” we saw two young girls, of such industrious habits,
that they had not had time to wash themselves. “The Dispensary,” I
presume, had cured everybody, for we saw no signs of surgeon, surgery,
or patients,--only a dingy old hen in the passage, who, probably,
had overlayed herself, or had contracted that prevailing malady, “the
Gapes,” the name whereof makes one yawn in writing it. Undoubtedly, the
edifice which pleased us the most, was a narrow, tumble-down hut of
two small stories, and one of these securely shuttered, which announced
itself to the world as “_Michael Brenan's Tea and Coffee Rooms, with
Lodging and Stabling_.
Leaving _Kenmare_ (and is not that a sweet little cottage, on the
right as you rise the hill, with the hydrangea glowing amid the dark
evergreens, like hope in seasons of sorrow?), we met some scores of the
peasantry, grave and decorous, on their way, the driver told us, to a
funeral. Whence did they come? Between Kenmare and Glen-garriff we saw
very few habitations, yet troops of children came running after the car
as heretofore, amply demonstrating that the Irish Paterfamilias
knows more of Addition and Multiplication than of the Frenchman's
Rule-of-Three (“two boys and a girl are a family for a king”), and ever
finds himself in a satisfactory position to converse with his enemies
in the gate. The stern Lycurgus, who, according to Plutarch, was so
very severe upon the unmarried Spartans, that he made them walk in
procession, more scantily' draped than their statues, though the
promenade took place in winter, and compelled them to sing songs
derisive of celibacy, chaffing themselves to music, as they walked
along,--would be gratified indeed, if he could revisit the earth, and
see what Ireland is doing with a grand fecundity, for the Census of
1861.
[Illustration: 220]
The vestments of these juveniles again attracted our notice, reminding
us--
“Of love, that never found its earthly close?”
for some of them must have been about as cool as Cupid, and suggesting
that impatience, with regard to apparel, which characterised of old even
the Kings of Ireland.
_Henry Castide_, selected on account of his knowledge of the language
to teach and Anglicise four Irish Kings, who had sworn allegiance to
Richard, relates in a conversation with _Froissart_, that these royal
personages “had another custom, which I knew to be common in this
country, which was the not wearing breeches. I had, in consequence,
plenty of breeches made of linen and cloth, which I gave to the Kings
and their attendants, and accustomed them to wear them. I took away
many rude articles as well in their dress as other things, and had great
difficulty at the first to induce them to wear robes of silken-cloth,
trimmed with squirrel-skin, or minever, for the Kings only wrapped
themselves up in an Irish cloak.” 1
This cloak, no doubt, very much resembled the garment worn by that
Irish chieftain, of whom _Sir Walter Scott_, when in Ireland, related an
anecdote, very highly-seasoned, to the Squireen, and who, during one of
the rebellions against _Queen Elizabeth_, was honoured by a visit from a
French Envoy. “This comforter of the rebels was a Bishop, and his union
of civil and religious dignity secured for him all possible respect
and attention. The Chief, receiving him in state, was clad in a yellow
mantle ['to wit, a dirty blanket,' interposes the Squireen), but this
he dropt in the interior, and sat upon it, mother-naked, in the midst
of his family and guests by the fire.” 2 After this aristocratic pattern
was fashioned, I suppose, the mantle of _Thady Quirk_, of which he tells
us (in “_Castle Rackrent_”), “it holds on by a single button round
my throat, cloak fashion,” so that _Thady_ could as promptly prepare
himself for repose, as that heroine of whom the poet sings,--
“One single pin at night let loose
The robes which veiled her beauty.”
There is magnificent mountain scenery, naked as the chieftain, but much
more interesting, between Kenmare and Glengarriff, so wild and stern,
and desolate exceedingly, a solitude so complete and drear, that, were
_Prometheus_ bound upon these craggy rocks, he would be relieved to
see the cruel vulture hungrily stooping for his _foie-gras._ Honour and
thanks to the genius which designed, and to the patient energy which
perfected, a way over these rugged Alps. Ireland must acknowledge her
obligation to the stranger, for a Scotchman, _Nimmo_, made her most
difficult roads, and an Italian, _Bianconi_, carries us over them.
1 _Froissart's Chronicles_, book iv., chap. 64.
2 _Lockhart's Life of Scott_, vol. iii., chap. xv.
[Illustration: 224]
Reaching the summit, we pass through a tunnel, hewn in the _solid_ rock
(why do we use this adjective always, as though rocks were ordinarily in
a state of fusion?), and leave county _Kerry_ for _Cork_.
CHAPTER XVII. GLENGARRIFF.
Graduates and undergraduates (O my brothers, how gladly shall I meet you
once again, when the long vacation is past!), did you ever dine, as I
have dined, with an elderly Don, severe in deportment and of boundless
lore, who happened to be at once the author of a great treatise on “_the
Verbs in [Greek]_,” and (strange antithesis!) of a pretty daughter? If
so, you will remember that hour of solemn converse, before the coffee
was announced, when the grave Professor, broad of brow, took you, as it
were, by the hand up the solemn heights of _Olympus_, and showed to
you, awfully admiring, the grand sublimities of _Longinus_, the sombre
valleys of _Parnassus_, and Philosophy's everlasting hills. And memory
will suggest to you, more happily, more vividly, how, summoned by the
butler, you at length came down from those amazing steeps, entered the
drawing-room, found the pretty daughter; and, while papa chuckled in
the distance, over a play of _Aristophanes_, easy to his apprehension
as _Buckstone_ to ours, discoursed to her of the Commemoration Ball, and
forgot _Minerva_ in the sunnier presence of _Aphrodiet_.
And you, my general readers, you, who, with that refinement of taste for
which you are remarkable above all other readers, go to Concerts at
the Hanover Square Rooms in the season, and, out of it, to dingy County
Halls, whenever the Italians sing,--you, too, must help me with an
analogy, and say,--can you not recall how, amid all that severe and
stately music, some plaintive ballad, quaint madrigal, or hearty glee,
refreshed your weary spirit, and won the sole encore? It was so, at all
events, when last I went to an Operatic Meeting in the Halls of Crystal;
and Alboni sang; and Giuglini sang; and of Inis and Icos good store; and
we beat time, and “wasn't it delicious?”; but no song went home to our
English hearts, roused us from our lethargic and drear gentility, and
made us clap our English hands, save the song of “_The Hardy Norsemen_.”
Some such pleasant refreshment, and cheerful change, it is, coming away
from those barren rocks of Kerry, those dark, cold lakes (numerous, it
is said, as days in the year), to gaze upon the sunlit _Bay of Bantry_,
and the freshness and the beauty of green _Glengarriff! Glengarriff_ is,
indeed,
“A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summed up, and closed in little.”
A miniature bay, miniature mountains, miniature waterfall, a glen, to
which, as Moore writes of it, the
“ocean comes,
To 'scape the wild wind's rancour.”
Yes, to the eye all was peace, but not so to the ear, for, when we went
in to dinner, the noise made by a couple of waiters was something to
exceed belief. One of them, it was evident, had been suddenly evoked
from the stables, and had been garnished with an enormous white
neckerchief, under the idea apparently that this threw a kind of glory
over his costume of corduroy, and effectually hid the ostler in the
accomplished domestic footman. His hair was arranged (with a curry-comb,
I fancy) to imitate a cockatoo, and we were, naturally, jocose about
_Peveril of the Peak, and Ricquet with the Tuft_, &c. To hear him and
his superior coming down the boarded passage with the dinner, was like
“the march of the Cameron men;” and they ran against each other, from
time to time, with such a clattering of plates, and dish-covers, and
knives, and jugs, and crockery in general, as would have done honour to
the Druids on a _Walpurgis Night_.
[Illustration: 229]
But the Irish waiter is, notwithstanding, a capital fellow,
good-tempered, prompt, colloquial, large-hearted. I say “large-hearted”
because he will undertake to serve any conceivable number of persons,
and “colloquial,” remembering that, when a neighbour, at a _table
d'hôte_, mildly expressed his conviction, that one waiter was
insufficient to satisfy the emergencies of seventeen persons, the
individual referred to immediately exclaimed from the other end of the
apartment, but with all good humour and civility, “_Shure, thin, and
every gintleman will be having his fair turn_.”
Well, I prefer this scant attendance, with all its good humour and
elasticity, to the solemn dreariness of our English waiter, who has
nothing to say but “Yezzur,” and knows not how to smile. If the Irishman
cannot come to you, he will at all events recognise your summons,
and favour you with a grin on account, whereas the Englishman hath an
unpleasant habit of affecting not to hear you, and of rushing off in a
contrary direction.
We remained a Sunday at Glengarriff (there is an air of rest and peace
about the place, as of a perpetual Sabbath), and went up to the little
edifice upon the hill, half cottage and half church. Indeed, the
inhabited part has the more ecclesiastical aspect, and I was surprised
on entering it, uncovered, and with obeisance, to confront an old woman
washing potatoes!
The clergyman, having duties elsewhere, was somewhat late for matins,
and it sounded strangely to be speaking of “the beginning of this day,”
an hour and a half after the meridian. But that sacred service is ever
seasonable, and we were glad, after an earnest sermon, to drop our
thankful alms into the Offertory basin, though it was but a cheese plate
of the willow pattern.
In the afternoon, we climbed the high hills which overlook _Glengarriff_
and, after losing our way, and meeting with an apparition, which alarmed
us fearfully, we reached the highest point, and surveyed, with wonder
and gladness, the glorious view beneath us.
[Illustration: 232]
CHAPTER XVIII. GLENGARRIFF TO CORK
Mounted on the Cork car next morning, we passed the estuaries of _Bantry
Bay_, where, the tide being out, the heron stood, lone and aristocratic,
and the curlew ran nimbly among the dank seaweed. By the roadside, the
goats, tied in pairs, and cruelly hoppled, tumbled over the embankments
as we passed. We went by the picturesque old ruins of _Carriginass_, and
by various sights and scenes, until we reached the _Pass of Keimaneigh_,
a defile through the mountains, the appropriate refuge of the
_Rockites_, in 1822, and an elegant situation for a still. _Burns_,
that poetical gauger, might have been happy here, so long as, dreamily
wandering among the heath-clad steeps, he had confined his attentions to
the beauties of nature, and ignored the paraphernalia of art; but a more
practical man, intent on business, would have had but an uncomfortable
home of it, until a bullet put an end to his dreary quest, and
“The de'il flew away with the exciseman.”
The driver pulled up his horses by a way-side cottage, and inquired
whether we wished to see _Gougane-barra_. It was only a mile or so out
of our route, Patrick there would take us in his car, and he would wait
for us with all the pleasure in life. So, making this little deflection,
we reached, as speedily as a good pony could take us over bad roads, the
gloomy lake and mountains. Here we were received by a troop of juvenile
guides, led on by an old man, who with a long white beard, and staff,
intended, I believe, to give us the idea of a venerable and pious
pilgrim, to remind us probably of _St. Fion Bar_, the “Saint of the
Silver Locks,” who founded a monastery here; but roguery so twinkled
in his eye, and imposition so quavered in his voice, that I have no
hesitation in speaking with regard to him, as _the Edinburgh Review_
spake of _Edgar Poe_:--“He was a blackguard of undeniable mark.”
The Irish poet _Callanan_ sings,
“There is a green island in lone Gougane-barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow.”
We visited the “green island,” reaching it by an overland route (a method
of access which I do not remember to have noticed out of Ireland); and
the “Allua of Songs” was represented by a discordant din in Anglo-Irish,
from the illustrious humbug in the beard, and his satellites, which
would have interested us in a greater degree, had we understood only a
twentieth part of it.
Ultimately, we caught a small boy, intelligent and intelligible, and he
told us how the great Saint had here made himself deliciously miserable,
feasting upon the idea of his fasts; contemplating his macerations in
the lake, as complacently as a cornet his new uniform, or his sister her
first ball-dress, in the glass; whipping himself as industriously as
a schoolboy his top; hugging himself in his hair shirt, and nestling
cosily as a child in its crib, in a bed composed of ashes and broken
glass.
These and other austerities by which the Reverend Mr. Bar so signally
extinguished himself, have made Gougane-barra, even to this day, a great
resort for pilgrims; you see “the Stations,” and you see graven upon a
stone, which was formerly an altar-stone, the list of prayers to be said
there; and you hear of many wonderful cures, which have been performed
(I always like that story of the priest, who was overheard, while
telling his friend, that he must be so good as to excuse his absence, as
he was engaged “_to rehearse a miracle at two 0 clock!_”) at the _Holy
Well_ hard by,--the very well, it may be, to which Larry O'Toole took
Sheelah, his wife, and Phelim (as they thought) was “the consekins of
that manoover.”
These pilgrims, some fifty years ago, used to drink diligently as soon
as they had finished their prayers, laying aside the staff for the
shillelagh, and kicking off their sandals for a jig on the green. Having
paid off the old score, they began a new account like gentlemen, just as
an undergraduate, having advanced ten pounds to his tailor, immediately
orders clothes to the amount of twenty.
Regaining the car and main road, we pass by small silvery lakes from
which the trout are leaping, “_bekase_,” says our driver, “_the wather's
so full o' fish that whinever they want to turn round they must jist
jump out and do it in the air_,” through a country prettily diversified
with
“Woods and corn-fields, and the abode of men,
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke,
Arising from _such_ rustic roofs”
as are only to be seen in Ireland, and so come to _Inchigeela_.
_À propos_ of cornfields, I must not forget a striking example of
scientific ingenuity, which we saw in this neighbourhood. A small
cornstack had been raised, so grievously out of the perpendicular, that
the tower of _Pisa_ would have looked severely straight by it. But the
builder saw his error, before it was too late, and had gloriously saved
his cereal structure, by erecting another, opposite to and abutting
towards it, until they supported each other, like the commencement of
those card houses, which we built in early youth, a chevron in heraldry,
or two drunken sots “seeing each other home.”
At _Inchigeela's_ clean and comfortable inn, we had a capital luncheon
for ninepence, and then “lionised” the village. The first object of
interest was a pig, asleep under a tree by the brookside.
[Illustration: 238]
“Pinguem, nitidumque Bene curatâ cute.”
(I may add bene _curandâ_, as the bacon that is to be cannot possibly
hear), and so serenely dignified in its complete repose, so “mildly
majestical,” that one almost expected to see a point-lace nightcap, and
fair girls fanning away the flies! He looked as happy as _Gryllus_, that
companion of _Ulysses_, who, being transformed into a pig by _Circe_,
and, being subsequently offered redintegration, preferred the swinish
estate; huge and handsome as the famous boar, who ate _the Reverend Mr.
Haydn_, after the victory of the rebels at _Enniscorihy_; 1 obese
and sleepy, as _Silenus_, when found by the shepherds, _Chromis and
Mnasylus_; 2 refreshed and comfortable, like that great _O'Neill_, who
(_Camden_ says so) was wont to plunge himself into the mire, as a cooler
and restorative, after great excess.
1 Sir Jonah Barrington's Personal Sketches, vol. iii., p. 422.
2 Virgil. Edogue vi. 13.
[Illustration: 239]
Progressing, we come to the Constabulary Barracks, where a couple of
constables, with such moustaches as would make a young Cornet groan,
are polishing up their carbines. Our London police are well-favoured in
appearance, but if the Irish constables were to take their place, there
would not be a single female-servant, to be “warranted heart-whole,”
in the great Metropolis, and the very name of Meat-safe would become a
by-word and a laughing-stock.
In the river hard by, a girl, standing ankle-deep, from time to time,
like the young lady in “_the Soldiers Tear_” held aloft a snowy--never
mind what; and, having plunged it into the stream, and placed it upon
a stone, belaboured it (as though it were a drunken husband) with an
implement of wood, which much resembled a villager's clumsy cricket-bat.
_Two_ Schools, and one actually at work! real pupils, making the
pace too severe to last (when they saw us looking at them), with real
slate-pencils over real slates! I wonder whether they were doing the
“_Irish Arithmetic_,” of which O'Hara declares the following to be a
faithful specimen:--
“Twice 5 is 6;
The 9s in 4 you can't;
So dot 3, and carry 1;
And let the rest walk!”
Returning, after a prolonged and pleasant stroll, we found the horses
in the car, and the driver seated on his box. Now, an English coachman
would have yelled at us, and English passengers would have scowled on
us, for detaining them; but the Irishman gave us a pleasant smile of
recognition, as though it was very kind of us to come back at all, and
did not start for full five minutes, to assure us that we had caused
no inconvenience. Certainly, it was one of those warm, still, delicious
summer days on which _nobody wants to start_, satisfied with the calm
enjoyment of the present, and so absorbed and occupied in doing nothing,
that it seems to be quite a triumphal effort to rouse one's-self and
light a cigar! At length, our charioteer speaks to his horses, whose
drooping heads acknowledge the soporific influence of the day; and,
awaking from their favourite night-mares, they bear us on our road to
_Cork_.
Now we pass the tower, antique and ivy-clad, of _Carrigadrohid_, (nice
name for a naughty pointer, requiring frequent reprimands on a broiling
day in September!); a handsome residence on the hill beyond, with the
pleasant waters of the river _Lee_, which accompanies us from its source
at _Gougatie-Barra_ to _Cork_, winding below it; and change horses at
_Dripsey_. Between this latter place and Cork, the signs of civilisation
became so painfully prominent, and the scenery so excruciatingly
English, that, having secured ourselves by our rug-straps, to the
iron bar behind us, our “custom always of an afternoon,” when we felt
inclined for a siesta, we closed our eyes in sadness, and tried to dream
of Connamara and Killarney. But sights, too dreadful for description,
scared sleep away. Carts, whereupon was gaudily emblazoned “Albert
Bakery,” and “Collard and Collard” fascinated our unwilling gaze; and
we shortly found ourselves among the suburbs disgustingly neat, and the
houses offensively comfortable, of “that beautiful city called Cork.”
On the right and left, as you approach, are two very imposing and
extensive structures, _Queen's College_, and (“great wit to madness
nearly is allied”) _the Lunatic Asylum_,--the latter so large, that it
might have been erected to accommodate those numerous patients who have
lost their reason in vain attempts to understand Mr. Bradshaw's Railway
Guide.
Cork is, indeed, a “beautiful city,” delightfully situated, handsomely
built, and having more the appearance of energy, prosperity, and
comfort, than any other city we saw in Ireland. To my fancy the old
prophecy is fulfilled,--
“Limerick was, Dublin is, and Cork shall be
The finest city of the three.”
The river Lee, dividing here, flows round the island on which
principally the city stands; and upon the wooded hills above, the richer
part of the community have their pleasant, healthful homes.
Now, although I have deplored our transition from the wild scenery of
Connamara and Kerry to the formalities of cultivation and refinement, I
am not so bigoted as to deny that civilisation has its advantages; and,
among them, I would specially include “the Imperial Hotel” in Pembroke
Street. An excellent dinner, in pleasant society (the exception being a
vulgar, garrulous old female, who ate with her knife, and told us how,
in one of the foreign churches, she had “tried very 'ard to convert _an
aconite_, quite a genteel young man,”) followed by some irreproachable
claret,
“with beaded bubbles, winking at the brim,”
disposed us to criticise very leniently the defects and inferiorities
of art; and we left our inn to see the fireworks in the Mardyke
Gardens, not only consoled, but cheery. All Cork appeared to be going in
procession up that long avenue of fine old trees; and as the subsequent
exhibition appeared to be quite satisfactory, I can pay “all Cork” the
compliment of saying, that it is very easily pleased. To us, as we stood
in the long, damp grass, and the varnish was retiring from our favourite
boots, intervals of twenty minutes between the pyrotechnic performances
soon began to be rather tedious; and we longed to repeat an experiment,
originally introduced at the Henley Regatta, when a dozen of us
combining, applied our cigars to all the “fixed pieces” at once, and the
grand design, which was to crown the whole, anticipated its glories by
a couple of hours, and wished the bewildered spectators “Good Night” (in
glittering letters two feet long) almost as soon as they had paid for
their admission!
CHAPTER XIX. CORK
I was dreaming that I met Lord Evelyn, at sunrise, in the Gap of Dunloe;
that he put into my hand, with a graceful bow and striking amenity, the
largest horse-pistol I ever saw, constructed, as he said, upon novel
principles, by which it loaded itself, and would continue to go off
until three o'clock, with appropriate airs from a musical box in the
handle; that, leaving me with a kind of _Pas de Basque_, which I thought
very inappropriate at such a crisis, and taking up a position twelve
paces from me, he produced a weapon, similar to mine, and requested me
to “blaze away;” that I was making frantic, but futile efforts to get my
deadly instrument on full cock, and that my Lord, disdaining to take any
advantage, was pinking the eagles, as they flew overhead; when the loud
ringing of a contiguous bell recalled me to the realities of life. There
is ever in these large hotels some unhappy inmate, who is unable to
put himself into communication with Boots, who rings his bell with an
ever-increasing energy, until he performs, at last, in his wild fury,
such a continuous peal, as must bring up somebody, or bring down the
rope. It is interesting to listen to these bells. First they suggest,
then they entreat, then they remonstrate, then they insist, and then
they curse and swear! Like the music of the Overture to _Guillaume
Tell_, they begin pleasantly and peacefully, then they grow grand and
warlike, _crescendo_-ing, from _andante pianissimo_, until they arrive
at _allegro fortissimo_; and reminding me of a village dame, whom I
heard calling from her cottage door to a child, playing in the distance,
and hearing but not heeding its mother:
“_Lizzie, luv!_”
“Liz--a--buth!”
“E--LIZ--ER--BUTH!”
“BESS, YOU YOUNG ------!”
epithet too suggestive of the kennel for readers of polite literature.
Of course we went to see the old _Cove of Cork_, who, in a spirit of
loyalty, but to the great disappointment of facetious visitors, has
changed his name to _Queenstown_. We travelled by rail to _Passage_,
and thence by steamer. What shall I say of this glorious haven, “_Statio
bene fida carinis_,” twelve miles from city to sea? What a refreshment
and gladness must it be to the weary sailor, to come from his lone
voyage on “the sad sea waves,” to this safe home and refuge, to listen
to the summer breeze, softly sighing in those upland groves, instead
of to the tempest, as it bends the creaking mast, and to look down
upon those calm and glittering waters, with the gay craft of Peace and
Pleasure gliding gracefully to and fro.
Should it ever be my happy lot to revisit the city and haven of Cork,
I shall most certainly decline to land at Queenstown. The gentleman who
took a Census of the smells at Cologne, and said,
“At Colne, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements, fanged with murderous stones,
And rags and jags, and hideous wenches,
I counted four-and-seventy stenches,
All well-defined and separate stinks!”
might, perhaps, be interested in this locality, and would find an ample
field for his nasal arithmetic. The heat was intense, the tide low; and,
though I have no doubt that, further from the sea, the place is sweet
and healthy enough, I never remember to have inhaled so offensive an
atmosphere as that which prevailed, upon St. Bartholomew's Day, in the
year 1858, and in the front street of the Queenstown. As an Irishman,
Chief Baron Woulfe, once wrote of Paris, “the air is so loaded with
stenches of every kind, as to be quite irrespirable;” and turning to
my friend, I said, “O Francis, it is written, in this 'Handbook to the
Harbour and City of Cora,' that 'Queenstown is celebrated, and justly
so, for the equality, mildness, and salubrity of its temperature,' and
that 'many medical men prefer it to the climate of _Madeira_;' but take
thy kerchief from thy nose brief while, and answer me, my Francis, terse
and true, doth not this statement seem to thee, in boyhood's phrase, 'a
Corker!'”
He replied, that “as the stinks were not quite sufficiently defined to
sketch, he should hire a boat and bathe;” and, having purchased a couple
of oyster-cloths, the nearest approximation he could find to towels, so
indeed he did, leaving me (incapable of natation), to contemplate the
Garrison, an extensive pile with a very military and practical look,
Spike Island, once the residence of Mr. Mitchell, and now occupied
by some 2000 malefactors of less illustrious name, and Rocky and
_Hawlbowline_ Islands, which are used as ammunition stores.
The heat and the incense (how I envied the white gulls, flying lazily
over the waters, and ever and anon dipping, as one thought, to cool
themselves!) were so oppressive and irritating, that when a small boy,
buying apples, would keep dropping them on the ground, in a vain
attempt to thrust more into his pocket than the cavity could possibly
accommodate, I almost thirsted for his blood, and like the stern old
Governor in _Don Juan_, I could have seen him
“thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.”
Yea, should have esteemed it to be _Hari-kari_, which is Japanese, you
know, for “happy dispatch.” 1
1 “_The Hari-kari_, or 'Happy Dispatch,' is still practised
by the Japanese. This consists in ripping open their own
bowels with two cuts, in the form of a cross.... Princes,
and the high classes, receive permission to rip themselves
up, _as a special favour_, when under sentence of death.”--
_Japan, and her People_, by A Steinmitz.
In expiation of these sanguinary thoughts, I subsequently presented a
fourpenny piece, as conscience money, to a miserable-looking beggar,
who “had not tasted food,” &c. &c. &c. &c., and who only asked for “a
halfpenny, to buy a piece of bread.” But he had scarcely left me (having
previously requested all the saints to pay me particular attention),
when I heard one of two men, who were leaning against the wall, on which
I sat smell-bound, say to his neighbour that “the jintleman must have
more brass than brains, to go and give his money to a drunken shoemaker,
who'd been out three days on the spree.” Yes, my groat was gone to buy
alcohol for this impostor, this Cork Leg; and I felt as though I very
closely resembled that bird which the French call “_Le Bruant Fou_,” and
we “_The Foolish Bunting_,” because it is so easily ensnared.
It was, indeed, a joyous departure from humbug, dead fish, and sewers,
to the waves, that were dancing in a pleasant breeze (which prudently
declined to venture ashore); and we were as glad to make an escape as
our great sailor, _Sir Francis_, when, outnumbered by the Spaniards, he
came, crowding all sail, into Cork Harbour, and hid himself securely in
“_Drakes Pool_.”
Lovely as the scene around her, there sat upon the deck, as we returned
to _Passage_, a winsome Irish bride, fondly gazed upon by her happy
husband, and less ostensibly by ourselves, and about a dozen officers,
who were bound for Cork, from the Garrison and Club house at Queenstown.
Was it that mysterious talent of beauty, which without words can say, “I
recognise your homage, and it does not displease me;” or was it only
our own enormous vanity which caused each of us to imagine, as I feel
convinced we did, that, could she only have foreknown our peculiar
fascinations, she would have laughed to scorn the inferior animal, who
was now grinning by her side?
We returned to the Imperial for luncheon (and I am unacquainted with any
midday refreshment more interesting than prawns, fresh and full-grown,
with bread and butter _à discrétion_, and the golden ales of Burton),
and then took car for _Blarney_. Our horse was evidently as fond of his
home as that enthusiastic citizen who, with a charming indifference to
anachronisms, declared that Athens was called “the Cork of Greece,” and
would keep perpetually turning round to gaze upon the beautiful city.
In vain the driver inquired satirically whether he had dropped his
umbrella, or forgotten to order dinner, or whether there was anything
on his mind; in vain he addressed him vituperatively, called him an old
clothes-horse, and threatened to take him to the asylum; in vain, trying
the persuasive, he assured him that we had come all the way from England
to see him, having heard so much of his speed and beauty, and that, if
he would keep up his character, and be a gentleman, he should have such
a feed of old beans that day, as would cause him to neigh for joy. All
in vain! from time to time round went this uncomfortable horse, until
at last, as some fond lover takes one more look at his beloved, and then
rushes wildly away, where duty calls or glory waits him, our eccentric
quadruped suddenly started off at full trot, and during the remainder of
our journey comported himself with great propriety.
CHAPTER XX. BLARNEY
The old _Castle of Blarney_, like the castle of Macbeth, by Inverness,
“hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentler senses;”
and it commands a fine view “over the water and over the Lee” over lake
and meadow, and over “the Groves of Blarney,” renowned in song. The
landscape rewards your exertions, when you have ascended the narrow
staircase of the sole remaining tower, and this somewhat resembles
(“_magna componere_”) an excellent “Stilton,” which has gone the way
of all good cheeses, and is now a hollow ruin--a ruin on which some
sentimental mouse might sit, like Marins at Carthage, and bitterly
recall the past.
Looking down this cavity, made gloomier by the dark ivy and wild myrtle,
which grow from floor to battlement, one feels that fainty thrill and
chilliness which is equally unpleasant and indescribable, and gladly
divert our attention, first to the stone displaced by a cannon shot, in
the days of the incomparable _Lady Jeffreys_, when
“Oliver Cromwell, he did her pummell,
And broke a breach all in her battlement,”
and then to another stone lower down in the tower, and bearing the
inscription, “_Cormac Macarthy Fort is Me Fieri Fecit_, a.d. 1446,”
which may be translated liberally,
“Cormac Macarthy, bould as bricks,
Made me in Fourteen Forty-six.”
This is said to be the original _Blarney Stone_, but as no man could
possibly kiss it, unless (as Sir Boyle Roche observed) he happened to be
a bird, or an acrobat, twelve feet long, and suspending himself by his
feet from the summit of the Tower, we were content to believe in
the conventional granite, which now bears the name, and which, being
situated at the top of one of the turrets, is very accessible for
osculation.
Of this lapideous phenomenon, the author of “The Groves of Blarney”
sings,
“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-an-outer, to be let alone:
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him,
Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone!”
Now it is my conviction, primarily suggested by my own sensations, and
subsequently confirmed by what I noticed in others, as I lingered on
that ancient tower, that the majority of those who kiss the Blarney
Stone, do wish and try to believe in it. We English have so scanty a
stock of superstitions, and some of these so wanting in refinement and
dignity, as, for instance, the “crossing out” of an isolated magpie,
the ejection of spilt salt over the left shoulder, deviations into
the gutter to avoid a ladder, the mastication of pancakes upon Shrove
Tuesday, and the like, that we are glad of any pretext for gratifying
that innate love of the marvellous, which exists, more or less, in us
all,--ay, and will exist, until John Bright is Premier of England,
and our Fairy Tales and Arabian Nights, and all our books of pleasant
fiction are solemnly burnt at Oxford, before a Synod of costive Quakers.
And then it is so gratifying for Mammas to fancy, as they bend to kiss
the magic stone, that assuredly they “stoop to conquer,” henceforth, by
a new and dulcet eloquence, those little idiosyncrasies of “dear Papa,”
which have thwarted their happiest schemes, such as his insuperable
apathy on the subject of that new Conservatory, although “you
know, darling, both Mr. Nesfield and Mr. Thomas declared it to be
indispensable.”
Pleasant, too, for their charming daughter of nineteen, to think that
she hereafter shall not ask in vain for that tour in Switzerland, that
ball at home, those boxes, varying in shape and size; small, from the
stores of Howell and of James; medium, from Messieurs Hill and Piver;
and large, very large, from “the infallible Mrs. Murray,” and Jane
Clark, in the Street of the Regent.
Enlivening, moreover, for that Eton boy to believe, as he salutes the
Blarney Stone, that now he has only to give the Governor a hint, and
“that clipping little horse of young Farmer Smith's” will be purchased
forthwith, and presented to him, to carry him next season with the
Belvoir hunt.
Miserable Father, how shall he meet this irresistible incursion upon his
purse and peace. Well may he look coldly on the Blarney Stone! Well may
he express, from heart and hope, his belief that it's “all humbug.” And
yet, methinks, remembering that last Election, that distressingly effete
experiment to nominate Sir John Golumpus, that fearful silence, when he
came to grief, that vulgar gibe “go 'ome, and tak' a pill,” he too must
sigh for this gift of Blarney, and long to kiss the Stone.
[Illustration: 258]
See, they are leaving the battlements,--first the Etonian, then his
sister, and then Mamma. O, wily Paterfamilias! Suddenly remembering that
he “has left his stick” (he has, and purposely), he steps briskly back,
and, stooping for his cane,--salutes the rock! He, at all events, won't
_“kiss, and tell!”_
But everybody kisses it. The noisy old girl, whom we met yesterday at
the _table d'hôte_, and who preferred steel to silver, as a medium for
the transmission of food, reached the summit of the tower very short of
wind, but resumed, as soon as ever she could speak, a severe sermon upon
the errors of “_Room_,” and its superstitions in particular. And yet,
ultimately (affecting to do it in ridicule,--let us be charitable, and
hope that, in her heart of hearts, she had in view the conversion of
her “genteel Aconite”), she kissed the Stone; and we were glad to have
already done so.
We saw the kitchen, where beeves were cooked in the merry old times, and
the banquet-hall wherein they were carved. The latter was appropriated
to a miscellaneous collection of rickety old farming implements,--rust,
and dust, and decay, where brave knights laughed over the winecup,--
“And tapers shone, and music breath'd,
And beauty led the ball.”
Shall we re-ascend the tower, and preach, from that old stone pulpit, on
“_pulvis et umbra sumus?_” Perhaps, as there is no congregation, and a
Lunatic Asylum mighty convanient, we may as well postpone our sermon,
and turn our steps to the gardens and groves of Blarney.
If the poet had not told us that “they are so charming,” I should
scarcely have discovered the fact for myself, as they are but feebly
ornamented with flowers, and--
“The gravel walks there, for speculation,
And conversation, in sweet solitude,”
are damply suggestive of a cold in the head. At the same time, from
their pleasant position and varied surface, these grounds have a charm
about them; and I should much like to wander in them, by moonlight,
with--(I must decline, like the Standard Bearer, to communicate the
young lady's name), just to see whether I had derived any benefit from
my salutation of the Blarney Stone; whether I could say _mavourneen_
with a sweeter tenderness, and discourse more fluently those “sugared
glosses,” which are called by the sentimental “_heart music_,” and by
the unsentimental “_bosh_.”
In these grounds the portly old gardener showed us one of those
_Cromlechs_, which were used by the Druids for sacrificial or
sepulchral purposes, and in which, I am ashamed to say, we professed
an all-absorbing interest, though, on my asking Frank, as we left the
gardens, “what a Cromlech was?” he replied that, prior to inspection,
his idea had always been that it was a species of antediluvian buffalo!
Then we saw the lake
“That is stored with perches,
And comely eels in the verdant mud;
Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches,
All standing in order for to guard the flood.”
They say that, from this lake enchanted cows, snow-white and of wondrous
beauty, come forth in the summer mornings, and wander among the dewy
meads, to the intense astonishment and admiration, doubtless, of the
celebrated Irish Bulls. 1
1 The only lapsus linguar, resembling a bull, which I heard
during our tour, was from a fellow-passenger, in Connamara,
who was repeating a conversation, of which he declared
himself to have been an eye-witness.
And they say, moreover, that beneath these waters (which we ventured to
designate _Cowesharbour_, in allusion to the mysterious kine), lies the
plate-chest of the Macarthys, about the size of a gasometer, and never
to be raised until once again a Macarthy shall be lord of Blarney. It
will be a busy day for the butler, and a happy one for those who deal in
plate-powder, whenever this restoration shall occur.
Our driver gave us, as we returned, a taste of his autobiography. I wish
that I could repeat it _verbatim_, for Irish humour loses its bloom if
it is not faithfully rendered; but my memory only retains the incidents,
and, here and there, a phrase of his story.
He was in England several years ago, at the time of harvest, travelling,
sickle in hand, with a dozen of “the boys,” and looking out for
employment in the neighbourhood of, or, as he termed it, “contagious to
th'ould castle of Newark-upon-Trent.” A hot wind blew the dust along the
road, for “the good people were a-going their journeys;” 1 and they were
resting awhile, and looking at a fine crop of wheat, by the wayside,
when two young men on horseback stopped, and asked them “whether they
wanted work?”
1 “The Irish have a superstition, that when the dust is
caught up and blown about by the wind, it is a sign that the
fairies are travelling.”--_Tales and Novels by Maria
Edgeworth_, vol. iv. p. 72.
Now, it seems, that there lived in these parts, at the period of our
history, one of those unhappy malcontents whose counsel, like Moloch's,
is for open war with everything and everybody about them; who can
believe no good of their neighbours, because they find none in
themselves; who murmur at the rich, and are mean and merciless to the
poor; who go to meeting house to spite the parson, and to church to vex
the preacher; who attend parish-meetings to stir up quarrels, and to set
one class against another; who poison foxes, and put their great ugly
boots into partridge-nests; and sedulously devote themselves in every
way to promote the misery of mankind.
A bear of this calibre, calling himself a farmer, was tenant of the
field on which the Irishman gazed; and a plan occurred to the merry
young gentlemen by which they might amuse themselves, occupy the
reapers, and annoy “that mangy old hunks.” Accordingly, they at once
retained our friend the car-driver, and his company, to cut the crop
before them, giving them particular directions to get it down as quickly
as they could, and agreeing to pay them liberally by the acre, as “their
father was anxious to get it stacked, and would not mind their doing the
work a bit slovenly, if only they lost no time.” And then, having warned
them “not to take any notice of a poor half-witted fellow, who lived
near, and who, fancying that all the land about was his own, might
possibly try to interrupt their proceedings,” the horsemen wished them
“good-day.”
They had been at work for nearly an hour, and had left behind them,
in their anxious haste, such an untidy example of sheaf and stubble
as would have broken Mr. Mechi's heart, when a loud bellowing in the
distance announced the arrival of the unhappy lunatic! He came on,
roaring and raving, shaking his fist, and foaming at the mouth. He
actually danced with rage among the sickles, until the reapers, fearing
the excision of his legs, forcibly removed him, and with twisted
strawbands, secured him to his own gate! There, trussed and pinioned, he
sent forth such howlings through “the alarmed air,” as scared every crow
from the parish, and very speedily attracted the surprised attention of
the British public travelling upon the Great North Road.
The reapers, eventually, found it expedient to retire with considerable
agility, much disgusted and discomfited, at being “sich a distance
on the wrong side of the wage, bedad,” until they were met by their
delighted employers, who not only presented them with a couple of
sovereigns, but introduced them, with the anecdote, to a jolly old
gentleman, hard by, from whom they had employment until the end of
harvest.
In allusion to the subject of Irishmen in England, I asked the car man,
when he had concluded his story, whether he was aware that there were as
many of his countrymen living in London as in the city of Dublin itself?
1 And his reply, to the effect, that I had “_brought away a dale
o' vartue from th' ouldstone a top o Blarney_,” reminded me of an
observation made, when I was at school, by our French master, to a boy
named _Drake. “Monsieur Canard, I shall not call you a liar but I do not
believe von vord of vot you say!_”
1 See an interesting account of the Irish in London, in _The
Million-peopled City_, by the Rev. J. Garwood, p. 246.
We had a fine view, as we returned, of the beautiful city and its
environs, and re-entering by another route, we passed the ornate
chapel, commenced by Father Mathew, at the date and with the design, so
charmingly recorded by the poet,
“The first beginning of this new chapel
Was in eighteen hundred and thirty-three;
It will soon be finish'd by the subscribers,
And then all tyrants away must flee.”
Next morning, having purchased, as we were commissioned and as we
recommend other tourists to do, a good stock of highly finished but
low-priced gloves from Mollard, in the street of St. Patrick, we started
by rail for Dublin.
CHAPTER XXI. FROM DUBLIN HOMEWARD
There are objects, I doubt not, in the well-cultivated country which
lies between Cork and Dublin, well worthy of special notice, but we did
not pause to observe them, passing once more the pretty town of Mallow,
and the Limerick Junction, reminded at Thurles of the famous Synod, and
longing, as we passed the Curragh (Ireland's Newmarket), for a gallop
over its green, elastic sward.
The latest intelligence, which we obtained from Mark, on our arrival
at Morrisson's was that Cardinal Wiseman had arrived in Dublin, and the
Fair in Donnybrook. To the latter we went, as soon as we had dined, but
did not meet with His Eminence, wiser in his maturity than Wolsey in
his youth, for Wolsey not only went to the fair, but got there so
particularly drunk, that he was put into the stocks by Sir Amyas
Paulett,--if you doubt it, ask “_Notes and Queries._”
The glories of _Donnybrook_ have declined dismally since those more
happy days, when Paddy
“'Slipp'd into a tent, just to spend half-a-crown,
Slipp'd out, met a friend, and for joy knock'd him down,
With his sprig of shillelagh, and shamrock so green!”
The showmen shouted, and the drums rumbled, and the cymbals clanged,
and the fiddlers fiddled, but the dancing was limp and feeble, and the
general effect was dreary. We visited Mr. Batty's Menagerie, and were
offered a mount upon a young elephant, at the low charge of one penny.
And I am glad that we declined; because the quadruped in question,
having gone round the show, until it was tired of doing so, suddenly
dropped upon its stern, and discharged its jockeys into the sawdust, as
though they were a load of coals!
Then we visited the Theatre of Ferguson, and there a Prima Donna
appeared to us, from the arrangement of her mouth, to be singing
with remarkable energy; but we had no further means of verifying the
supposition, as the whole House, incited by her example, was chanting
at the top of its voice. And I must say that, although I stood, most
uncomfortably and insecurely, on a narrow plank at the top of “the
Boxes,” I never enjoyed a concert more; and I very much doubt whether
the Pope himself could have resisted joining in the Chorus.
We saw nothing at all suggestive of a shindy until (to our great joy) we
met a couple of our college friends, Hoare, the stroke of our boat, tall
among the tallest, as Arba among the Anakims, arm in arm with little
Dibdin, the coxswain (they have been sworn friends, ever since Hoare
took him by the collar, and dropped him into the Isis, for some mistake
in steering); and these gentlemen were armed with shillelaghs, and
anxious, as the old lady in the captured city, to know when the fun
would begin. “For now I see,” said Hoare,--
“The true old times are gone,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.”
“And every knight,” I said, as a supplement,
“brought home a broken head.”
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove--I mean, let us return to Morrisson's!”
We steamed away next morning from Kingston Quay. Looking back upon that
lovely bay, I thought of the poor Irishman's most touching words, as he
gazed for the last time on his native land, “Ah, _Dublin_, sweet _Jasus_
be with you!” and from my heart I breathed an earnest prayer for the
good weal of beautiful Ireland!
*****
*****
And now our “_Little Tour_” is over; and its story must go forth, like
some small boy to a public school, to find its true place and level.
It may, perhaps, receive more pedal indignities than donations of a
pecuniary kind; vulgarly speaking, more kicks than halfpence; but as no
severities can deprive the boy of his pleasant memories of the past, nor
chase the smile from his tear-stained and inky cheek, as he sleeps to
dream of home; so no criticism, however caustic, can ever mar my glad
remembrance of our happy days in _Ireland_.
And in mine adversity, should such befall, I shall have yet another
solace. Hooted, like some bad actor, from the stage, I can hide myself
behind scenery, which has a charm for all, and which, like Phyllis the
fair, “never fails to please.”
Cheered or condemned, whether “the Duke shall say, Let him roar again,”
or the poor player shall hear
“On all sides, from innumerable tongues,
An universal hiss,”
the drama is over, and the curtain falls.
FINIS.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Tour In Ireland, by S. Reynolds Hole