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,—
