O’Donaghue was the powerful chieftain of a clan inhabiting a great and opulent city, which stood where the lake now rolls its waters. It had everything in abundance except water; and the legend says, that the only little spring which it possessed was the gift of a mighty sorcerer,who called it up at the prayer of a beautiful virgin; adding a solemn warning, that they should never forget to close it every evening with a large silver cover which he left for that purpose. The strange forms and ornaments seemed to confirm this wonderful command; and never was the old custom neglected.
But O’Donaghue, a mighty and dauntless warrior (perhaps too, like Talbot, an incredulous one,) only made merry at this story, as he called it; and one day, being heated with more wine than usual, he commanded, to the terror of all present, the silver cover to be carried into his house, where, as he jestingly said, it would make him an excellent bath. All remonstrances were vain: O’Donaghue was accustomed to make himself obeyed: and as his terrified vassals at length dragged in their ponderous burthen, amid groans and lamentations, he exclaimed laughing “Never fear, the cool night air will do the water good, and in the morning you will all find it fresher than ever.” But those who stood nearest to the silver cover turned away shuddering, for it seemed to them as if the strange intricate characters upon it moved, and wreathed like a knot of twisted snakes, and an awful sound appeared to come forth mournfully from it. Fearful and anxious, they retired to rest: one alone fled to the adjoining mountains. And now when morning broke, and this man looked down into the valley, he thought he was in a dream;—city and land had disappeared; the rich meadows were no more to be seen, and the little spring bursting forth from the clefts of the earth has swelled into a measureless lake. What O’Donaghue prophesied was true; the water had become cooler for them all, and the new vessel had prepared for him his last bath.
In very clear bright weather, as the fishermen assured us, some have seen at the lowest bottom of the lake, palaces and towers glimmering as through glass: but many have beheld, at the approach of a storm, O’Donaghue’s giant figure riding over the waves on a snorting white horse, or gliding along the waters with the quickness of lightning in his unearthly bark.
One of our boat’s crew,—a man of about fifty, with long black hair, which the wind blew wildly about his temples, of an earnest and quiet but imaginative look,—was stealthily pointed out to me by one of his companions, while they whispered in my ear that “he had met him.”
You will believe that I quickly entered into conversation with this boatman, and sought to gain his confidence, knowing that these people, whenever they anticipate unbelief and jesting, observe an obstinate silence. At first he was reserved; but at length he became warmed, and swore by St. Patrick and the Virgin that what he was going to tell me was the naked truth. He said he had met O’Donaghue at twilight, just before the raging of one of the most terrific storms he had ever witnessed. He had staid out late fishing; it had rained torrents the whole day; it was piercingly cold, and without his whiskey-bottle he could not have held out any longer. Not a living soul had been visible on the lake for a long time,—when all at once a boat, as if fallen from the clouds, sailed towards him; the oars plied like lightning, and yet no rowers were visible: but at the stern sat a man of gigantic stature: his dress was scarlet and gold, and on his head he wore a three-cocked hat with broad gold lace. The spirit-boat passed him: Paddy fixed his eyes intently upon it: but when the tall figure was over against him, and two large black eyes glared forth out of the mantle, and scorched him like living coals, the whiskey fell out of his hand, and he did not come to himself till therough caresses of his other half waked him. She was in a great rage, and called him a drunken fellow:—She might think the whiskey had brought him to that, but he knew better.
Is it not curious that the costume here described exactly corresponds with that of our German Devil of the last century, who is now come into such great favour again? And yet Paddy had most certainly never heard of the Freischütz. It seems almost as if Hell had its ‘Journal des Modes.’ I was extremely amused at the old man’s penitence and distress after he had finished his story. He loudly reproached himself for it, crossed himself, and incessantly repeated, “O’Donaghue, though terrible, looked like a ‘real gentleman; ‘for,” said he, looking round fearfully, “‘a perfect gentleman’ he was, is now, and always will remain.” The younger boatmen were not such firm believers, and seemed to have a good mind to joke the ghost-seer a little, but his seriousness and indignation soon overawed them all. One of these young men was a perfect model of a youthful Hercules. With all the overflowing spirits of a body sound to the core, he played incessant tricks, and did the work of three at the same time.
We landed at Mucruss Abbey, which stands in Mr. Herbert’s park, notwithstanding which it is plentifully furnished with skulls and bones. The ruins are of considerable extent, and full of interesting peculiarities. In the court yard is a yew-tree, perhaps the largest in the world; it not only overtops all the building, but its branches darken the whole court, like a tent. In the first story I observed a fire-place, on which two ivy branches, one on each side, formed a most beautiful and regular decoration, while their leaves covered the mantel-piece with a mass of foliage.
Our guide here gave us a curious example of the unbounded power of the Catholic priests over the common people. Two clans, the Moynihans and the O’Donaghues had been in a state of perpetual feud for half a century. Wherever they met in any considerable numbers, a shillelah battle was sure to take place, and many lives were usually lost. Since the formation of the Catholic Association, it has become the interest of the priests to establish peace and concord in their flocks. Accordingly, after the fight which took place last year, they enjoined as penance that the Moynihans should march twelve miles to the north, and the O’Donaghues an equal distance to the south, and both pronounce certain prayers at their journey’s end; that all the lookers on should make a pilgrimage of six miles in some other direction; and in case of a repetition of the offence, the penance to be doubled. All this was executed with religious exactness; and ever since the war is at an end.
Continuing our progress for about three miles on this side the lake, we landed on a thickly wooded shore, and visited O’Sullivan’s waterfall, which, swollen by the rain, was doubly magnificent. The luxuriance of the trees and trailing of the plants which overhang it, and the cave opposite, in which you stand protected from the wet to view this foaming cataract, increase the picturesque and wild beauty of the scene. Here are sweet lonely walks, which lead over the mountains to a village imbedded in a wood, and cut off from all the world.
But as the sun was struggling with the clouds, and we were soaked through and through (by the heavens and the lake whose waters had more than once washed over us,) and very weary, we resolved to close our labours for to-day, and to return by Lady Kenmare’s pretty villa.
As we had still about four miles to go by water, the handsome young fellow, who by-the-bye, in spite of his athletic frame, had amost remarkable resemblance to Mademoiselle Sontag, offered to bet three shillings that he would row us home in half an hour. The old ghost-seer would not undertake such an exertion, but young Sontag declared he would row for him. We accepted the wager, and now flew like an arrow across the lake. Never did I see a finer exhibition of power and persistency, amid constant singing, jokes, and sportive tricks. The rowers won their wager only by half a minute, but received from us more than double their bet, which all promised with great glee to drink in the course of the night. To conclude the whole, they held a conversation, already got up for the purpose, with the echo of the walls of Ross Castle. The answers had always some double meaning; for instance, ‘Shall we have a good bed?’—answer, ‘Bad,’ and so on.
Sept. 25th.
Unfortunately two Englishmen of my acquaintance arrived to-day, and joined us, which destroyed my beloved incognito; for though I am no ‘exalted personage,’ I find as much pleasure in it as if I were. When one is unknown, one always escapes somegene, and gains some freedom the more, however inconsiderable one may be. As I could not help myself in this case, I contrived at least to perform half this day’s tour by land with my worthy friend the manufacturer, and let the three Englishmen go together by boat. It was the same which we had yesterday, and had then engaged for to-day. My poney had the high sounding name of ‘the Knight of the Gap.’ He was but a recreant knight, however, and would not move without whip and spur. Before we came to the great ravine or gap, from which he takes his name, we had a very beautiful view of the mountains from a hill which rises in the midst of the plain. Mountain, water, and trees, were so happily distributed as to produce the more refreshing harmony:—the long ravine appears all the wilder and more, monotonous; in the style of Wales, but not so vast. In one part of it a large mass of rock loosened itself some years ago, and lies, split in two, across the road. A man had the project of excavating these pieces of rock as a hermitage, but remained faithful to his strange dwelling only three months. The people, with their usual energy of expression, call it “the madman’s rock.” Some way further on we saw an old woman cowering on the road, whose appearance exceeded all that has ever been invented in fairy tales. Never did I see anything more frightful and disgusting: I was told that she was a hundred-and-ten years old; and had survived all her children and grandchildren. Although in an intellectual point of view reduced to a mere animal, all her senses were in tolerable preservation. Her form was neither human nor even animal, but resembled rather an exhumed corpse reanimated. As we rode by, she uttered a piteous whine, and seemed satisfied when we threw her money. She did not reach however to pick it up, but sank back into her former torpor and apathy. All the furrows of her livid face were filled with black dirt, her eyes looked diseased, her lips were of a leaden blue; in short, imagination could conceive nothing so shocking.
We met our boat at Brandon Castle, a ruin rendered habitable, with a high tower and neglected pleasure-grounds. There are some pieces of water through which our guides carried us on their backs. The boat appeared ‘à point nommé;’ it sailed round a projecting point just as we reached the shore, and had on board the best bugleman in Killarney. He blew a sort of Alpine horn with great skill, and called forth many a delightful echo. We passed the arch of a bridge, on which, when the waters are swollen, boats are often wrecked. Our bugleman told us that he had been twice upset here, and the last time nearly drowned. He wished, therefore, to be put on shore, and climb along the rocks past thisformidable place; but the old steersman would not consent, declaring that if the strange gentlemen remained in the boat it became him to stay, and be drowned with them. We all passed quite safely however.
The rock called “The Eagle’s Nest,” which is the almost constant abode of those kingly birds, is of a fine and imposing form. Not far from it is Coleman’s Leap,—two rocks standing upright in the water at some distance; on which are the marks of feet, three or four feet deep in the rock. Such leaps and footmarks are to be found in almost all mountains.
Our boat was fully victualled for a brilliant dinner (a thing which Englishmen seldom forget,) and as we espied a most romantic cottage under high chesnut trees, we determined to land here, and eat our repast. It would have been extremely agreeable, had not the dandy spoiled it by his affectation, his want of all feeling for the beautiful, and his ill-natured ‘persiflage’ of the less polished but far more estimable Irishman. He gave him the nickname of Liston (a celebrated actor, who is particularly distinguished in silly absurd characters,) and made the poor devil unconsciously act so burlesque a part, that I was reluctantly constrained to laugh, though the whole thing was quite ‘hors de saison,’ and in the most execrable taste. It is possible, too, that the Irishman only affected stupidity, and was, in fact, the most cunning of the two,—at least he addressed himself to eating and drinking with such unwearied perseverance while the others were occupied with laughing, that very little remained for them. I cannot deny that he received powerful support in this department from me.—A fresh-caught salmon broiled on arbutus-sticks over the fire was an admirable specimen of Irish fare.
We rowed slowly back by moonlight, while the bugleman’s horn started echo after echo from her repose. It was an enchanting night; and wandering from thought to thought, I reached a state of mind in which I too could have seen ghosts. The men near me seemed to me only like puppets; Nature alone, and the sweetness and the majesty that surrounded me, seemed real.
Whence comes it, thought I, that a heart so loving is not social? that men are generally of so little worth to you?—Is your soul too small for intercourse with the intellectual world, too nearly allied to plants and animals?—or have you outgrown the forms of this state of existence in some prior one, and feel pent up in your too narrow garments? And when the melancholy tones of the bugle-horn again trembled in soft notes across the waves, and gave to my fancies the sounds of a strange language, like the voice of invisible spirits, I felt like Göthe’s fisherman,—as if some irresistible force dragged me softly down into the calm element, to seek O’Donaghue in his coral rocks.
Before we landed, a curious ceremony took place. The boat’s crew, with young Sontag at their head,—who always called me ‘his gentleman,’ in virtue of a somewhat larger fee he had received from me,—asked permission to lie-to at a little island, and to christen this after me, which could only be done by moonlight. I was therefore told to stand on a projecting rock: the six boatmen leaning on their oars formed a circle around me, while the old man solemnly pronounced a sort of incantation in a wild measure, which sounded awfully in this romantic scenery and the night. Young Sontag then broke off a large arbutus branch, and giving a twig of it first to me, and then to the gentlemen in the boat, we fixed them in our hats; the rest he divided among his comrades, and then asked me—with respectful earnestness what name the island—with O’Donaghue’s permission—was in future to bear? “Julia!” said I with a loud voice:—on which this name was repeated, not very accurately, three times with thundering hurrahs. A third man now took a bottle filled with water, delivered a long address in verse to O’Donaghue, and threw the bottle with all his might against a piece of rock, so that it broke into a thousand pieces. A second bottle filled with whiskey was then drunk to my health, and a threefold cheeragain given to Julia Island. The boatmen, to whom the name was strange, took it for mine, and henceforth called me nothing but Mr. Julia, which I heard with a melancholy satisfaction.
Your domains are thus increased by an island on the romantic lake of Killarney: it is only a pity that the next company that lands on the same spot will probably rob you of it; for doubtless such christenings take place as often as godfathers are to be found. The real child, the whiskey-bottle, is always at hand. Nevertheless, I enclose an arbutus leaf from the identical sprig which flourished on my hat, that you may at least retain undisputed possession of something from your island.
Glengariff, Sept. 26th.
To write to you to-day is really an effort which deserves reward; for I am excessively tired, and have, like my father Napoleon, been obliged to drink coffee incessantly to keep me awake.[132]
I left Killarney at nine o’clock in the morning in a car of the most wretched construction, and followed the new road which leads along the upper and lower lake to the Bay of Kenmare. This road discloses more beauties than are seen from the lakes themselves, which have the great disadvantage of affording a picturesque view on one side only,—the other shore is quite flat. On the road which lies along the side of the mountain and through a wood, every turn presents you with pictures, which are the more beautiful from being framed. I remark, generally, that views seen from the water lose: they want the principal thing—the foreground.
Near a beautiful cascade, and in the most charming wilderness, though not far from the road, a merchant has built himself a villa, and surrounded it with a garden and park. He must have expended at least five or six thousand pounds,—perhaps much more,—and yet the land is the property of his family only for ninety-nine years; at the expiration of that time it falls, together with all that is upon it, to the lord of the soil, Lord Kenmare, and must be delivered up to him in perfect repair. No German would feel disposed to spend his money in decorative improvements on such terms: but in England,—where almost the whole soil belongs either to the government, the church, or the powerful aristocracy, and therefore can seldom be purchased in fee; where, on the other hand, industry, fostered by a wise government, in alliance with agriculture, has enriched the middling and trading classes,—such contracts are extremely common, and obviate many of the inconveniences of the distribution of landed property, without diminishing its great utility to the state.
The ascent now became steeper and steeper, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of bare heights; for vegetation here seldom extends above midway up the mountains. It is not as in Switzerland, where luxuriant verdure reaches almost to the snowy region. To take Switzerland as a standard by which to try Ireland, would however be absurd. Both countries afford romantic beauties of a totally different character; both excite admiration and astonishment at the sublime works of Nature, though in Switzerland they are on a more colossal scale. The road was so winding, that after half an hour’s climbing we found ourselves precisely over the cottage I mentioned, which with its shining gray thatch looked, at that depth, like a little mouse sunning itself in the green grass;—for the sun, after a long struggle, had at length become undisputed lord of the heavens.
Eight miles from Killarney we reached the highest point of the road, where stands a solitary inn. You look down upon the broad valley, in whose lap lies the greater part of the three lakes, so that you behold them all with one glance.
From this point the road descends, leading between naked mountains of bold forms to the sea. It was fair-time when I arrived in Kenmare, and I couldhardly penetrate through the bustling crowd with my one-horse vehicle, especially from the number of drunken men who would not—perhaps could not—get out of the way. One of them fell in consequence of an attempt to do so, and knocked his head so violently on the pavement that he was carried away senseless,—a thing of such common occurrence that it attracted no attention. The skulls of Irishmen appear to be universally of a more firm and massive construction than those of other people, probably because they are trained to receive shillelah blows. While I dined, I had another opportunity of observing several affrays. First a knot of people collect, shouting and screaming; this rapidly thickens; and all at once, in the twinkling of an eye, a hundred shillelahs whirl in the air, and the thumps,—which are generally applied to the head,—bang and snap like the distant report of fire-arms, till one party has gained the victory. As I was now at the fountain-head, through the mediation of mine host I bought one of the finest specimens of this weapon, yet warm from the fight. It is as hard as iron, and that it may be sure to do execution, it is also weighted at the end with lead.
The celebrated O’Connell is now residing at about thirty miles from hence, in his solitary fortress in the most desert region of Ireland. As I have long wished to know him, I sent a messenger from this place, and determined, while waiting for his answer, to make an excursion to Glengariff Bay, whither I accordingly set out as soon as I had dined.
Driving is now completely at an end: I can proceed only on a poney or on foot. I set out, a poney carrying my baggage, and I and my guide walking by his side. If either of us were tired, the good little horse was to carry us too. The sun soon set, but the moon shone bright. The road was not uninteresting, though horribly bad, often leading through bog and brook without bridge or stepping-stone. It became indescribably difficult after six or eight miles, where we had to climb a high and nearly perpendicular hill, treading only on loose and pointed stones, from which we slipped back at every step nearly as far as we went forward. The descent on the other side was still worse, especially when a mountain intercepted the moon’s light. I was so weary that I could walk no further, and seated myself on the poney. This little creature showed almost human intelligence. Going up-hill he helped himself with his nose, and I think even with his teeth, as a fifth leg; and down-hill, he wriggled with incessant twisting of his body like a spider. When he came to a boggy place, in which there was only here and there a stone, thrown by way of step, he crept as slowly as a sloth, always trying first with his foot whether the stone would bear him and his burthen. The whole scene was most singular. The night was so clear, that I could see around me to a great distance; but nothing met my eye save rocks ranged above rocks, of every shape and kind, standing out gigantic, wild and sharp, against the sky. No living creature, not a tree or bush, was to be seen, only our own shadows trailed after us; not a sound was heard but our own voices, and sometimes the distant rush of a mountain-stream, or more rarely the melancholy horn of a herdsman collecting his cattle wandering amid these pathless wilds. Once only we saw one of these cows, which, like the mountain-sheep of Wales, have caught the shyness of wild animals. She was lying in the road, but on our approach sprang bellowing over the rocks, and vanished in the darkness like a black spirit.
About an hour before you reach Glengariff Bay the landscape becomes as luxuriant and park-like as it has heretofore been dreary and barren. Here the rocks arise in the strangest forms, out of Hesperian thickets of arbutus, Portugal laurel, and other lovely and fragrant shrubs. Many of these rocks stand like palaces, smooth as marble, without excrescence or inequality; others form pointed pyramids, or long continuous walls. In the valley sparkled solitary lights, and a gentle breeze waved the tops of the high oaks, ashes, and birches, intermingled with beautiful holly, whose scarlet berries were visible even bymoonlight. The magnificent bay now glittered under the web of moonbeams which lay upon it; and I really thought myself in Paradise when I reached its shore, and alighted at the door of a pretty cheerful inn. Cheerful as was its exterior, mourning was within its gates. The host and hostess, very respectable people, came out to receive me, dressed in deep mourning. On my inquiring the cause, they told me that her sister, the most beautiful girl in Kerry, eighteen years of age and the picture of health, died the day before of a brain-fever, or rather, of the ignorance of the village doctor:—the poor woman added, weeping, that a week’s illness had changed her to forty, so that nobody could recognize the corpse of the once blooming girl, or those sweet features which were so lately the pride of her parents and the admiration of all the young men in the neighbourhood.
She lies close by my bed-room, dear Julia! parted from me only by a few boards.—Four feet from her stands the table at which I am writing to you. Such is the world;—life and death, joy and grief, are never far apart.
Kenmare, Sept. 27th.
At six o’clock I was stirring, and at seven in the magnificent park of Colonel W——, brother of Lord B——, whose family possesses all the country around the bays of Bantry and Glengariff, perhaps the most beautiful part of Ireland. The extent of this estate is princely, although in a pecuniary point of view not so considerable, the greater part of the land, consisting of uncultivated rocks and mountains, which pay only the rent of romantic beauties and magnificent views. Mr. W—— ‘s park is certainly one of the most perfect creations of that kind, and owes its existence entirely to his perseverance and good taste. It is true, that he could nowhere have found a spot of earth more grateful for his labours; but it seldom happens that art and nature so cordially unite. It is enough to say that the former is perceptible only in the most perfect harmony; otherwise, it appears to vanish into pure nature:—not a tree or a bush seems planted by design. The vast resources of distant prospect are wisely husbanded; they come upon the eye by degrees, and as if unavoidably: every path is cut in a direction which seems the only one it could take without constraint and artifice: the most enchanting effects of woods and plantations are produced by skilful management, by contrast of masses, by felling some, thinning others, clearing off or keeping down branches; so that the eye is attracted now into the depths of the wood, now above, now below the boughs; and every possible variety within the region of the beautiful is produced. This beauty is never displayed naked, but always sufficiently veiled to leave the requisite play for the imagination: for a perfect park,—in other words, a tract of country idealizedby art,—should be like a good book, which suggestsat leastas many new thoughts and feelings as it expresses.
The dwelling-house is not visible till you reach an opposite height; it then suddenly emerges from the mass of wood, its outline broken by scattered trees in groups, and its walls garlanded with ivy and roses and creeping plants. It was built after the plan of the possessor; in a style not so much Gothic as antiquely picturesque, such as a delicate feeling of the suitable and harmonious conceived to be in keeping with the surrounding scenery. The execution is excellent; for the imitation of the antique is quite deceptive. The ornaments are so sparingly and so suitably interspersed, the whole so well constructed for habitation and comfort, and the part which appears the oldest has such a neglected and uninhabited air, that the impression it made, on me at least, completely answered the intention of the architect; for I took it to be an old abbey, lately rendered habitable, and modernized just so far as our habits rendered necessary. At the back of the house are hot-houses and a walled garden in beautiful order, both connected with the sitting-rooms,—so that youlive in the midst of flowers, tropical plants and fruits, without leaving the house. The climate is the most favourable possible for vegetation,—moist, and so warm that not only azaleas, rhododendrons, and all sorts of evergreens stand abroad through the winter, but even, in a favourable aspect, camellias. Dates, pomegranates, magnolias, lyriodendrons, &c. attain their fullest beauty; and the three last are not even covered. The situation affords extensive views, remarkable variety, and yet a complete whole, enclosed within high mountains. Bantry and Glengariff bays are seas in miniature, and supply to the eye the want of the ocean. On the land side the wavy lines of mountain seem nearly endless.
The lesser bay of Glengariff, which stretches in front of the house, is nine miles, the other fifty miles in circumference. Among the mountains immediately opposite to the park rises another sugar-loaf, and at its foot a narrow line of hills stretches into the midst of the bay, where its termination is picturesquely marked by a deserted fort. The park itself lies along one entire side of the bay, and at its lesser end borders on that of Bantry, where Lord B——’s house forms the principal object from this side. This whole beautiful domain was called out of nothing only forty years ago, and is yet only half finished. Such a work deserves a crown: and the excellent man who with slender means, but with singular talent and perseverance, has accomplished it, ought to be held up as a model to those Irish proprietors who spend their money abroad. I heard with real satisfaction, that on his and Lord B——’s estates party hate is unknown. Both are Protestants,—all their ‘tenants’ are Catholics; nevertheless they render an obedience as boundless as it is voluntary and cordial. Colonel W——, indeed, lives like a patriarch among them, as I learnt from the common people themselves, and settles all their differences, so that not a penny is spent in the wire-drawings of the law.
You may be sure that I was eager to make the acquaintance of so admirable a man: I esteemed myself, therefore, highly favoured by fortune in meeting him in the park inspecting the operations of his workmen. Our conversation took a very interesting and, to me, very instructive turn. I readily accepted his invitation to breakfast with him and his family; and found in his wife a lady with whom I had made a transient acquaintance in the whirl of London. She received so unexpected a guest most cordially, and introduced me to her two daughters of seventeen and eighteen. They are not yet out; for as I have told you, in England, where they bring out horses ‘sans comparaison’ too early, the poor girls are let to grow almost old before their leading-strings are taken off and they are launched into the wicked world.
The family show me all possible civility and kindness; and as the ladies saw me so passionate a lover of nature, they urged me to stay some days, that I might visit the various wonders of their neighbourhood, especially the celebrated waterfall, and view from Hungry Hill, in their company. It was impossible for me to stay, as I had already announced myself at O’Connell’s; but shall certainly avail myself of their invitation on my way to Cork, for such society is not of the kind that I shun.
I therefore contented myself for the present with taking a long walk with the whole family, first along the bay, to obtain a general view of the park and garden; then into a wood, in which Lord B—— has a ‘shooting lodge.’ This spot is as if invented for a romance. All that the most secluded solitude, the richest vegetation, the freshest and greenest meadows, surrounded by rocks and mountains; valleys on whose sides precipitous walls of rock, sometimes a thousand feet high, thickly-wooded glens, a rapid torrent dashing over masses of rock and over-arched by picturesque bridges of trunks and arms of trees; groves amid which the sunbeams play, and the cool waters refresh athousand wild flowers; animals sporting about in joyous security, majestic eagles and gay-plumed singing birds, all rendered doubly dear to the poetic heart by the sweetest repose and retirement;—all that such elements can produce is here found combined in the richest profusion. With melancholy regret I quitted these enchanting fancies of our dear mother earth, and tore myself away, when we reached the rustic gate, at which my guide and poney were already waiting for me.
As I took leave of my new friends, and turned my back on the lovely valley, the heavens were overclouded anew, and on my entrance into the dreary rocky region which I described to you yesterday, assumed the hue most suited to my disposition and to the surrounding objects. Tired of my long ride of yesterday, I wished to walk; but on my inquiring for my over-shoes, which the wetness of the road rendered needful, I found that the guide had lost one of them; and as fine scenery is better enjoyed dry-footed, I sent him back, hoping to restore to my sorrowful galoche its faithful mate, at least for the morrow: for to-day I resolved to continue my way through thick and thin on foot.
A soft rain began to fall,—one mountain after another was veiled from sight; and I wandered on, to the region where only the vast bones of the earth are visible, casting back many a melancholy lingering thought to the lost paradise. Meanwhile the rain became more and more heavy, and sudden gusts of wind soon announced a serious storm. I had to climb the high mountain which lies in the middle of the first half of the way, and already I was met by torrents of water which gushed like little cascades through every cleft. As I am seldom in the way of enjoying such a bath in the open air, I waded with a great feeling of satisfaction and pleasure through the streams, throwing myself in some degree into the pleasurable state of mind of a duck. Nothing of that kind is, as you know, impossible to my mobile fancy. But as the weather became every minute more dark and stormy, my thoughts also became more gloomy, and indeed fell almost into the fashionable scornful satanic vein. The superstition of the mountains surrounded me; I could not withstand it, and Rübezahl, the Bohemian Huntsman, elfs, fairies, and the Evil One himself, all passed before my mind; and I asked myself, “why should not the Devil appear to me, as well as to other respectable gentlemen?” At this instant I reached the highest point of the steep mountain.
The storm howled furiously, water fell in sheets from the heavens, and the deep basin below me appeared now and then for a minute from behind its black curtain, and then vanished again in the rolling mist and the gathering twilight.
A sudden gust of wind now completely inverted my umbrella, and nearly threw me down. I felt as if some giant fist had struck me. I turned and saw—nothing:—But how? does not something move there in the corner?—by heaven it does! My amazement was not slight when I now discerned, as clearly as darkness and rain would permit, a figure clad in black from head to foot, with a scarlet cap on its head advancing at a slow and limping pace towards me.
Now, dear Julia, ‘est-ce moi ou le diable qui écrira le reste?’ or do you think I am inventing a fable to amuse you. ‘Point du tout’—Ditchung und Wahrheit[133]is my motto. At all events I must close my letter here: I venture to hope my next will be expected with some impatience. Wholly yours,
L——
Kenmare, Sept. 28th, 1828.
Beloved Friend.—Was it the devil or not then? you ask. ‘Ma foi, je n’en sais rien.’ At any rate he had assumed a very ‘recommendable,’ though rather dangerous form,—that of a pretty girl, who, wrapped in her long dark blue cloak, made darker by the rain, and with the red cap of Kerry on her head, barefoot and shivering with cold, was going to pass by me, when I asked her what made her limp? and why she was wandering alone in such weather? “Ah!” said she, in half-intelligible patois, and pointing to her foot bound up, “I was only going to the next village, and I am belated, and I fell into the terrible weather, and I have hurt myself very much;” and then she looked down with an arch bashfulness, and showed the pretty wounded ancle. We walked on together and shared the difficulties of the way,—helped one another where we could, and at length found in the valley, first, better weather; then a place of shelter; and at last, a refreshing draught of new milk.
Thus invigorated I wandered on by night; and when I reached Kenmare, I had walked four German miles in something more than six hours: I was, however, heartily tired, and as soon as I reached my bed-room I exclaimed with Wallenstein,
“Ich denke einen langen Schlaf zu thun!”[134]
“Ich denke einen langen Schlaf zu thun!”[134]
“Ich denke einen langen Schlaf zu thun!”[134]
Derrinane Abbey, Sept. 29th.
This accordingly happened; and I had plenty of time, for the weather was so horribly bad that I waited in vain, alas! till three in the afternoon for better. I had sent a messenger to O’Connell the evening before, and had very inconsiderately paid him beforehand. I found him at the inn, without an answer and with broken shins. As soon as he had felt the money in his pocket he had been unable to resist the whiskey, and in consequence he and his horse had fallen down a rock in the night. He had, however, had the extraordinary sense and thought to send on a friend of his to fulfil his mission; and at my waking I found a very polite invitation from the Great Agitator.
I have already said that I did not set out till three o’clock; and although I had to ride seven hours with a most violent rain beating in my face, and in this desert where not even the shelter of a single tree is to be found, I had not a dry thread upon me after the first half hour. I would on no account have missed this extraordinary part of my adventures.
The beginning was certainly difficult. At first I could not get a horse, for that which I had ridden at Glengariff had hurt his foot. At length appeared an old black cart-horse, which was destined for my use, and a sort of cat-like little animal intended for my guide. I was also inimbrogliowith regard to my toilet. The lost galoche had not been found, and the umbrella was already unreeled on the haunted mountain. I replaced the first by a large slipper of my host’s; the second I tied together as well as I could, and then holding it before me like a shield, with a pocket-hankerchief covered with a piece of oil-cloth over my head, I galloped off in search of fresh adventures,—a perfect Don Quixote, and attended by a no less faithful representative of Sancho Panza.
Before I got a quarter of a mile from the town a destructive gust of wind made a deplorable end of my umbrella, once the ornament of New Bond Street, and since the companion of so many a disaster. All its cords broke, and left only a torn piece of silk and a bundle of whalebone in my grasp: I gave the remains to my guide, and surrendered myself without further solicitudeor defence to the elements, determined to bear good-humouredly what could not be altered.
As long as we coasted the bay of Kenmare, we rode on as quickly as possible, the road being tolerable. Soon, however, it assumed a worse aspect. The entrance to the wilder mountain country is marked by a picturesque bridge, thrown across a chasm an hundred feet high, called “The Bridge of the Black Water.” The sides of the chasm were clothed with oaks,—the last trees which I beheld. I remarked that my valise, which my guide had fastened on his horse, must inevitably be soaked through, and ordered the man to endeavour, if possible, to get a mat or sack at the nearest cabin, to lay over it. This incautious act I had abundant cause to rue: he too was, apparently, detained by the fascinations of whiskey; at any rate, though I frequently stopped in the hope that he would overtake me, I did not see him again till just at the end of my journey, which afterwards caused me the greatest perplexity.
The road, which gradually grew worse and worse, lay for the most part close to the sea, which the storm threw into magnificent agitation;—sometimes across a dreary flat of bog, sometimes by the side of chasms and steep precipices, or through wide chaotic plains, in which masses of rock were thrown together in such wild confusion, that it seemed the spot from which the giants had stormed heaven.
At rare intervals I met a solitary ragged wanderer; and the thought often recurred to me, how easy it were in this desert region to rob or murder me without the slightest risk of discovery. My whole travelling properly resides in my breast pocket; for in the Grecian fashion I carry ‘omnia mea’ with me. But far removed from all predatory thoughts, these poor good-hearted people invariably greeted me with respectful kindness, although my exterior was anything but imposing, and to an English eye by no means bespoke a ‘gentleman.’ I was frequently in utter uncertainty which of the half-imperceptible roads I ought to take, but unfortunately determined to keep as near to the sea as possible, which, though not the nearer, was the surest. Meanwhile time passed on; and when, at long intervals, I met a human being, and asked “How far is it to Mr. O’Connell’s?” the object of my visit always drew down a blessing upon me. I was answered with a “God bless your honour!” but the miles seemed rather to increase than to diminish.
At length it began to grow dark just as I reached a part of the coast, which assuredly it would be difficult to parallel. Foreign travellers have probably never been thrown into this desolate corner of the earth, which belongs rather to owls and sea-mews than to men, and of whose awful wildness it is difficult to give an idea.—Torn, jagged, coal-black rocks, with deep caverns, into which the sea breaks with ceaseless thunder, and then again dashes over the top of the tower-like crags its white foam; which, drying, is borne by the wind in compact masses, like locks of wool, over the highest points of the mountains;—the wailing cry of the restless fluttering sea-fowl, piercing through the storm with its shrill monotonous sound;—the incessant howl and roar of the under-mining waves, which sometimes suddenly dashed over my horse’s hoofs, and then ran hissing back again;—the comfortless removal from all human help;—the ceaseless pattering rain, and the coming-on of night on an uncertain and entirely unknown road.
I began really to feel uneasy, in earnest,—not half in jest as the day before. Your eager search for the romantic will turn out as ill for you, as for the Sorrowful Knight, thought I, and urged on my tired horse to his utmost speed. He stumbled every moment over the loose stones, and with great difficulty I at length brought him into a heavy trot. My anxiety was increased by O’Connell’s letter. He had written to me that the proper approach to his house was from Killarney,—that carriages must cross thence by water; but that the roadfrom Kenmare was the most difficult, and that I must therefore be sure to provide myself with a safe guide. And, as is generally the case when we pursue one train of thoughts with great pertinacity, a popular tale of Croker’s, which I had lately read came into my mind. “No land,” says he, “is better than the coast of Inveragh to be drowned in the sea; or if you like that better, to break your neck onshore.” Yet thought I—and here my horse suddenly stumbled, shyed, and turned with such a leap as I had hardly given the old mare credit for. I now found myself in a narrow pass. It was still light enough to see several steps before me clearly, and I could not understand what had struck this panic into my horse. Making all the resistance he could, and only in obedience to the admonitions of my shillelah, he at length went on again; but in a few steps I perceived with astonishment that the path, which had appeared pretty well tracked, terminated directly in the sea. The bridle nearly dropped out of my hand, as a foaming wave chased by the storm sprang upon me like a huge monster, and scattered the narrow cleft far behind me with its spray. Here was really a difficult situation. Bare inaccessible rocks surrounded me on every side,—before me rolled the ocean,—there was nothing for me but to retreat. But if I had lost my way, as I could not but suspect, how could I reckon on meeting my guide, even by returning; and if I did not meet him, where was I to pass the night? With the exception of O’Connell’s old castle, there was no hope of meeting with the least trace of a shelter for twenty miles round. I was already shivering with cold and wet, and my constitution would certainly not carry me through a bivouac in such a night. I had doubtless cause for some alarm. It was useless, however, to consider: I must ride back, that was clear; and as quickly as possible. My horse seemed to have come to the same conclusion; for, as if inspired with new force, he bore me away from the spot at a gallop. But would you believe it: a black figure was again destined to help me in my difficulty. You will say this is too much. `Ce n’est pas ma faute; le vrai souvent n’est pas le vrai-semblable.’ In short, I saw a black figure glide like a dim phantom across my path, and disappear behind the rocks. Invocations, prayers, promises, were in vain:—Was it a smuggler allured to this coast by the ample facilities it offers? or a superstitious peasant who took my unhappy person for a ghost? At all events it appeared that he did not choose to venture from his hiding-place, and I began to despair of the help I had thought at hand; when suddenly his head peeped out close to me from the cleft of a rock. I soon succeeded in tranquillizing his fears, and he explained to me the puzzle of the road terminating in the sea. “This road was made for low water; the tide is now,” he said, “about half in; a quarter of an hour later it is impossible to pass; but now, if you’ll pay me well, I will try and bring you through,—but we must not loose a moment.” With these words he seated himself at one bound on the horse behind me, and we made what speed we could back to the sea, which was rolling with great rapidity.
I felt a strange sensation as we now appeared deliberately to plunge down into the stormy sea, and had to make our difficult way amid the white waves and the rocks, which looked like ghosts in the dim twilight.
We had the greatest trouble too with the horse: however, the black man knew the ground so perfectly that we reached the opposite coast in safety, though bathed up to the arms in salt-water.
Unluckily, the terrified beast shyed again here at a projecting rock, and broke both the rotten girths directly in the middle, a mischance for which there was no remedy here. After all my disasters, I had the agreeable prospect of riding the last six miles balancing on the loose saddle. My black guide had indeed given me the clearest directions for the prosecution of my journey; but it was now so dark that the landmarks were no longer visible.
The road lay, as it appeared to me, across a wide moor, and was at first quitelevel. After half an hour of rough and stumbling trotting, during which I pressed my knees as hard as possible together, that I might not lose my saddle, I remarked that the road turned again to the right into the higher range of mountains; for the climbing grew steeper and more continual. Here I found a woman, who was passing the night with her pigs or goats. The road branched off into two divisions, and I asked her which I must take to reach Derrinane Abbey? “Oh! both lead there,” said she; “but that on the left is two miles nearer.” Of course I took this, but soon found to my cost that it was practicable only for goats. I execrated the old witch, and her traitorous intelligence:—my poor horse exhausted himself in vain efforts to climb through the blocks of stone, and at length, half stumbling half falling, he threw both saddle and me. It was impossible to keep the saddle on him alone; it fell down incessantly, and I was obliged to load my own shoulders with it, and to lead my horse besides. Till now I had kept in pretty good temper;—the spirit was still willing, but the flesh began to be weak:—the man on the cliff had said, only six miles further, and you are there; and now, after half an hour’s hard riding, the woman insisted upon it that it was still six miles, the shortest way, to Derrinane. I began to fear that this mountain fortress was not to be found, and that I was the sport of Kobolds, who bandied me from one to another. I seated myself on a stone quite out of heart, fevered with alternate heat and cold; when, like the voice of an angel in the wilderness, the shouts of my guide resounded in my ear, and I soon heard the trampling of his horse’s hoofs. He had taken quite a different way though the interior of the mountains, to avoid the sea, and had luckily met the woman whose direction I had followed.
In the delicious feeling of present security, I forgot all my disasters, loaded my deliverer with the saddle and my wet cloak, gave up my horse to his guidance, and seated myself upon his, thus making what speed I might. We had, in fact, five miles yet to ride, and that through a mountain-pass surrounded by precipices,—but I can give you no further description of the road. The darkness was so complete, that I was obliged to strain my eyes to the utmost to follow the man, who appeared only like a dim shadow flitting indistinctly before me. I perceived by the stumbling of my horse that we were on uneven ground; I felt that it was a continual alternation of steep ascents and descents; that we waded through two deep and rapid mountain torrents,—but that was all:—now and then, indeed, I suspected, rather than saw, that a bare wall of rock rose by my side, or the deeper black beneath me betrayed the precipice which yawned below.
At length,—at length a bright light broke through the darkness; the road grew more even; here and there a bit of hedge was visible; and in a few minutes we stopped at the gate of an ancient building standing on the rocky shore, from the windows of which a friendly golden radiance streamed through the night.
The tower clock was striking eleven, and I was, I confess, somewhat anxious as to my dinner, especially as I saw no living being, except a man in a dressing-gown at an upper window. Soon, however, I heard sounds in the house; a handsomely-dressed servant appeared, bearing silver candlesticks, and opened the door of a room, in which I saw with astonishment a company of from fifteen to twenty persons sitting at a long table, on which were placed wine and desserts. A tall handsome man, of cheerful and agreeable aspect, rose to receive me, apologized for having given me up in consequence of the lateness of the hour, regretted that I had made such a journey in such terrible weather, presented me in a cursory manner to his family, who formed the majority of the company, and then conducted me to my bedroom.—This was the great O’Connell.
On my return to the dining-room I found the greater part of the company there assembled. I was most hospitably entertained; and it would be ungrateful not to make honourable mention of Mr. O’Connell’s old and capital wine. As soon as the ladies had quitted us, he drew his seat near me, and Ireland was of course the subject of our conversation. He asked me if I had yet seen many of the curiosities of Ireland? whether I had been at the Giant’s Causeway?—“No,” replied I, laughing, “before I visit the Giant’s Causeway, I wished to see Ireland’s Giants;”—and therewith drank a glass of claret to his high undertakings.
Daniel O’Connell is indeed no common man,—though the man of the commonalty. His power is so great, that at this moment it only depends on him to raise the standard of rebellion from one end of the island to the other. He is, however, too sharp-sighted, and much too sure of attaining his end by safer means, to wish to bring on any such violent crisis. He has certainly shown great dexterity in availing himself of the temper of the country at this moment, legally, openly, and in the face of the government, to acquire a power scarcely inferior to that of the sovereign; indeed, though without arms or armies, in some instances far surpassing it:—for how would it have been possible for His Majesty George IV. to withhold 40,000 of his faithful Irishmen for three days from whiskey-drinking; which O’Connell actually accomplished in the memorable Clare election. The enthusiasm of the people rose to such a height, that they themselves decreed and inflicted a punishment for drunkenness. The delinquent was thrown into a certain part of the river, and held there for two hours, during which time he was made to undergo frequent submersions.
The next day I had fuller opportunity of observing O’Connell. On the whole, he exceeded my expectations. His exterior is attractive; and the expression of intelligent good-nature, united with determination and prudence, which marks his countenance, is extremely winning. He has, perhaps, more of persuasiveness than of genuine large and lofty eloquence; and one frequently perceives too much design and manner in his words. Nevertheless, it is impossible not to follow his powerful arguments with interest, to view the martial dignity of his carriage without pleasure, or to refrain from laughing at his wit. It is very certain that he looks much more like a general of Napoleon’s than a Dublin advocate. This resemblance is rendered much more striking by the perfection with which he speaks French,—having been educated at the Jesuits’ Colleges at Douai and St. Omer. His family is old, and was probably one of the great families of the land. His friends, indeed, maintain that he springs from the ancient kings of Kerry,—an opinion which no doubt adds to the reverence with which he is regarded by the people. He himself told me,—and not without a certainpretension,—that one of his cousins was Comte O’Connell, and ‘cordon rouge’ in France, and another a baron, general and chamberlain to the Emperor of Austria, but that he was the head of the family. It appeared to me that he was regarded by the other members of it with almost religious enthusiasm. He is about fifty years old, and in excellent preservation, though his youth was rather wild and riotous.
Among other things he became notorious, about ten years ago, for a duel he fought. The Protestants, to whom his talents early made him formidable, set on a certain Desterre,—a bully and fighter by profession,—to ride through all the streets of Dublin with a hunting-whip, which, as he declared, he intended to lay on the shoulders of the king of Kerry. The natural consequence was a meeting the next morning, in which O’Connell lodged a bullet in Desterre’s heart; Desterre’s shot went through his hat. This was his first victory over the Orangemen, which has been followed by so many more important, and, it is to be hoped, will be followed by others more important still.
His desire for celebrity seemed to be boundless; and if he should succeed in obtaining emancipation, of which I have no doubt, his career, so far from being closed, will I think only then properly begin. But the evils of Ireland, and of the constitution of Great Britain generally, lie too deep to be removed by emancipation.—To return to O’Connell; I must mention, that he has received from nature an invaluable gift for a party-leader; a magnificent voice, united to good lungs and a strong constitution. His understanding is sharp and quick, and his acquirements out of his profession not inconsiderable. With all this, his manners are, as I have said, winning and popular; although somewhat of the actor is perceivable in them, they do not conceal his very high opinion of himself, and are occasionally tinged by what an Englishman would call “vulgarity.” Where is there a picture entirely without shade!
Another interesting man, the real though not ostensible head of the Catholics, was present, Father L’Estrange, a friar, and O’Connell’s confessor. He may be regarded as the real founder of that Catholic Association so often derided in England, but which by merelynegativepowers, by dexterous activity in secret, and by universally organizing and training the people to one determinate end,[135]attained a power over them as boundless as that of the hierarchy in the middle ages; with this difference, that the former strove for light and liberty, the latter for darkness and slavery. This is another outbreak of thatsecondgreat revolution, which solely by intellectual means, without any admixture of physical force, is advancing to its accomplishment; and whose simple but resistless weapons are public discussion and the press. L’Estrange is a man of philosophical mind and unalterable calmness. His manners are those of an accomplished gentleman, who has traversed Europe in various capacities, has a thorough knowledge of mankind, and with all his mildness cannot always conceal the sharp traces of great astuteness. I should call him the ideal of a well-intentioned Jesuit. As O’Connell was busy, I took an early walk with the friar to a desert island, to which we crossed dry-footed over the smooth sand now left by the ebb. Here stand the genuine ruins of Derrinane Abbey, to which O’Connell’s house is only an appendix. It is to be repaired by the family, probably when some of their hopes are fulfilled.
On our return we found O’Connell on the terrace of his castle, like a chieftain surrounded by his vassals, and by groups of the neighbouring peasantry, who came to receive his instructions, or to whom he laid down the law. This he can the more easily do being a lawyer; but nobody would dare to appeal from his decisions: O’Connell and the Pope are here equally infallible. Lawsuits therefore do not exist within his empire; and this extends not only over his own tenantry, but I believe over the whole neighbourhood.
I wondered, when I afterwards found both O’Connell and L’Estrange entirely free from religious bigotry, and even remarked in them very tolerant and philosophical views, though they persisted in choosing to continue true Catholics. I wished I had been able to conjure hither some of those furious imbeciles among the English Protestants,—as forinstance Mr. L——, who cry out at the Catholics as irrational and bigoted; while they themselves alone, in the true sense of the word, cling to the fanatical faith of their politico-religious party, and are firmly predetermined to keep their long ears for ever closed to reason and humanity.
In the course of the day we were to have a hare-hunt, (for O’Connell has a small pack of hounds,) which would certainly have presented a most picturesque spectacle on these mountains and broad naked steeps: the bad weather, however, prevented it. I found much greater enjoyment in repose, and in the very interesting company, to which I am indebted for much instructive information.
Kenmare, Sept. 30th.
Although my kind hosts with true Irish hospitality pressed me to stay a week longer for a great festival which is in preparation, and to which a large company is expected, I did not think it right to take this entirely ‘à la lettre;’ besides which I had such a longing after Glengariff, that I did not wish to absent myself from it longer than was necessary for the end I had in view. I therefore took leave of the family this morning, with the sincerest thanks for the friendly welcome they had given me. O’Connell himself escorted me to the boundaries of his demesne, mounted on a large and handsome gray horse, on which he looked more military than ever. The rugged way is bare of all vegetation, but affords many sublime views, sometimes inland, sometimes to the sea, studded with rocks and islands, some of which rise completely isolated out of the water like high-peaked mountains. O’Connell pointed out one to me, on which he told me he had ordered an ox to be landed that he might fatten on the rich and undisturbed herbage. After some days the animal took such decided possession of the island that he was furious if any body attempted to land on it, and attacked and drove away even the fishermen who used to dry their nets on the shore. He was often seen, like Jupiter under his transformation, with uplifted tail and glaring eyes, bounding furiously along to reconnoitre the bounds of his domain, and to see if any intruder dared to approach. The emancipated ox at last became so troublesome and dangerous, that they were obliged to shoot him. This appeared to me a good satire on the love of liberty, which as soon as it has gained the power it seeks, degenerates into violence and tyranny; and the association of ideas brought many comical images involuntarily before my mind.
We afterwards came to a remarkable ruin, one of those so-called Danish forts, which were built, notbythe Danes butagainstthem. They are more than a thousand years old, and the lower walls, although put together without mortar, remain in excellent preservation. At the ruins of a bridge carried away by the swelling of a mountain-stream, O’Connell stopped to take a final leave of me. I could not help expressing to the champion of the rights of his countrymen, my wish that when we next met, the dungeons and fortresses of English intolerance might be overthrown by him and his allies, as completely as these ruined walls had been by the swollen and overflowing torrent.[136]So we parted.
As I returned by nearly the same way as I had come, I have little new to say about it, except that, though the day was fine, it tired me twice as much as before; probably because my mind was less excited. Not far from Kenmare I met several loads of stones, planks, beer, and butter. Every thing is conveyed on the backs of horses. The Irish are very ingeniousin means of transport. I have already described their admirable cars, with which one horse can so commodiously draw five or six persons. They have also a sort of car, equally well contrived, for the carriage of hay, wood, &c.; by means of which one horse does as much work as three with us. This is accomplished entirely by the skill with which the weight is balanced. A car is loaded with long timber, for instance, in such a manner that the horse is hardly visible under the complete covering of wood, the ends of which project many yards before the horse’s head and behind the car. The division of the weight at each end is thus so perfect that the timbers press only on one point, and the horse has thus comparatively little to draw. The driver helps a little, going up or down hill, by heaving up or bearing down the ends, which the slightest force is sufficient to move.
In the same manner five or six heavy oak planks are laid flat across the saddle of a horse, who carries them thus, like a balancing pole, without much labour, though the same weight in a different volume, a chest for instance, would suffice to crush him. They have another ingenious contrivance for transporting stone; a sort of wooden baskets or cradles which they hang over the saddle, binding them on the horse’s back over a thick bundle of straw.
The merry humour and good-natured politeness of the people I met were very engaging. I know no nation of which the lower classes appear so little selfish; so thankful for the least friendly word vouchsafed to them by a gentleman, without the least idea of gain. I really know no country in which I would rather be a large landed proprietor than here. What I did elsewhere, and earned only ingratitude and opposition of every kind, would here attach ten or twelve thousand people to me body and soul;—the only difference is, that here with much less time and cost I should have attained infinitely greater results, since here nature and man make almost every thing attainable. The people taken in a body, with all their wildness, unite the frank honesty and poetical temper of the Germans, with the vivacity and quickness of conception of the French, and the pliability, naturalness, and submissiveness of the Italians. It may with the fullest justice be said of them, that their faults are to be ascribed to others, their virtues only to themselves. Now I am upon this subject, I must relate to you an incident of no great importance which befell me some days ago: it deserves mention, as illustrative of the national character.
As I was going from Killarney to Kenmare, I met a continual succession of people driving cattle from some neighbouring fair. Most of them were riding colts they had just bought, without bridles; and as man and beast were strangers to each other, the latter were not in a very perfect state of subordination: we were therefore often forced to stop. At last I grew tired of this; and at the third or fourth rencontre of the kind, I called out to the people that I had not time to spend half the day on the road on account of their clumsiness; and somewhat hastily ordered the coachman to drive on. In an instant two colts set off with their riders, galloping before the carriage as hard as ever they could, while the whole drove of cattle took to the mountains. I was now sorry for my impatience, and desired the driver to stop again. There were in all four or five drovers whom I had thus routed, all sturdy young fellows; and the trick I had played them was certainly one of the most disagreeable that could be imagined, as it would take them at least half an hour to collect their dispersed cattle. If a traveller in a miserable one-horse vehiclehad given such a job to Germans, Englishmen, or Frenchmen, they would certainly have attacked him with appropriate abuse, and very likely have tried to catch him and do him some injury. The behaviour of these good-natured fellows was far different: at once respectful and witty. “Oh! murther, murther!” cried one, while his ‘crantancarous’ colt made another attempt to dart up the hill, and nearly threw him; “God bless your honour! but everygentlemanin England and Ireland gets out of the way of cattle! Oh, for God’s sake stop now, your honour, stop!” I immediately stopped: and after the poor devils had had the greatest trouble in fetching back the part of the cattle that had run the furthest, they came back to my car, with a “long life to your honour!” to thank me for my goodness, and went merrily off with their recaptured prize. I must confess that their behaviour was far more commendable than mine, which I repaired as well as I could by means of a handsome present.
October 1st: Morning.
Although dreadfully tired I could not sleep last night, and asked the host if he had a book. He brought me an old English translation of the Sorrows of Werther. You know highly, how intensely I honour our prince of poets, and will therefore hardly believe me when I say that I had never read this celebrated book. The cause would appear to many very childish. The first time it came into my hands, the passage at the beginning in which Charlotte wipes the little boy’s dirty nose excited in me such disgust that I could read no further; and this disagreeable image remained, always present to my mind. I now, however, set earnestly to work to read it, struck with the strangeness of the accident which led me to read Werther for the first time in a foreign tongue, and in the midst of the wild mountains of Ireland. But even here, I must honestly confess I could not feel any hearty relish for the antiquated “Sufferings;”[137]the quantity of bread and butter, the provincial and obsolete manners, and even the ideas, which were then new, but are now become common-place,—like Mozart’s beautiful melodies degraded into street ditties; lastly, the involuntary recollection of Potier’s admirable parody,—it was absolutely impossible for me to work myself up to the right “communion frame of mind,” as Madame von Frömmel calls it. But thus much I could perceive, jesting apart, that the book was calculated to ‘far furore’ at one period: for the morbid state of mind under which Werther sinks is truly German, and German feeling was just then beginning to make its way through the materialism which had taken possession of the rest of Europe. Wilhelm Meister indeed followed it with far different steps; and Faust has since traversed it with giant strides. We have, I think, outgrown the Werther period, but have not yet reached that of Faust; nor will any age, so long as men exist, out-grow that.
In the tragedy of Faust, as in those of Shakspeare, the whole inward man is mirrored forth; the principal figure is a personification of the eternal mysterious longings of the human heart, the restless striving after the Unknown and the Unattainable. Hence this drama can obviously never have a fully definitive end, even were it extended through many more acts than it is. But as the lofty spirit here treads a path dizzy as the bridge of AlSirat, he is every moment nearer to the bottomless fall than the human animal who remains quietly on the secure plain, and feeds.
A cousin of O’Connell’s, who gives hunting parties on the lake of Killarney, had promised me one for to-morrow. I have, however, a positive antipathy to going to see what I have seen before, as long as there is any thing new to see; and I cannot imagine that dogs and horses can make any great alteration in the features of a scene I know so well. On the other hand, in Glengariff, amiable people and a great deal of novelty awaited me: I therefore preferred it, rode once more across the Devil’s Mountain, this time by daylight, and arrived here about an hour ago. I am established in a pretty little room, and all the glories of the Bay are spread before my window.
Before I quitted Kenmare my vanity was put to a severe trial. The Irish naïveté of the innkeeper’s daughter made such an agreeable impression on me, that on my return to her father’s inn I scarcely talked to any body else, and thus won her good graces. She had never quitted her native mountains, and was as ignorant of the world as it is possible to conceive. I asked her, in jest, if she would go with me to Cork. “Oh no,” said she, “I should be afraid to go so far with you.—Do tell me now who you really are: You are a Jew;—that I know already.” “Why, are you mad?” said I; “what makes you think I must be a Jew?” “Ah, you can’t deny it; hav’n’t you a black beard all round your chin, and five or six gold rings on your fingers? And are you not an hour washing yourself in a morning, and don’t you go through ceremonies such as no Christian ever saw? Confess it now,—you are a Jew, ar’n’t you?” My disclaimer was of no use. At last, however, she said good-humouredly, that if I positively would not allow that I was one, she wished at least that I might ‘become as rich as a Jew,’ (an English phrase.) I confirmed this with a Christian ‘Amen.’
October 2d.
I am just returned from an excursion of sixteen miles with Colonel W—— to Hungry Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay, remarkable for its waterfall, and for Thomas O’Rourke’s flight to the moon on an eagle’s back, which began here, and has so often been related in prose and verse. Even in Germany this amusing tale has been repeatedly translated, and has probably fallen into your hands. The hero of the story is a game-keeper of Lord B——’s, who is still alive, and almost always drunk. On our return Colonel W—— introduced him to me at the inn. He is now extremely proud of his celebrity, and seemed to me when I saw him to be projecting another visit to the moon.
The quantity of rain which has fallen these few days has added much to the beauty of the waterfalls. The fall at Hungry Hill entirely disappears in dry weather, but after violent rains exceeds the Staubbach and Terni. Hungry Hill is a huge mass of naked rock about two thousand feet high. On the land side it forms two steep terraces, on the ‘plateau’ between which there is a lake, which of course is not visible from below, whence you see only the continuous lines of these colossal terraces. The upper one consists of bare rock, and is divided in the middle by a deep vertical groove, which looks as if cut by art; the lower, although also free from any visible inequality, has its side clothed with heather and coarse grass, on which hundreds of goats are seen grazing.
Through the groove or channel mentioned above the mass of water shoots from the highest point of the mountain, falls into the lake on thelower terrace, and filling that, rushes down afresh in four distinct cascades on the valley below. These form such vast arches, that the goats feed peacefully under them, while the streams convert the meadows below into a temporary lake.
As the spectator who stands below cannot see the division between the upper and the lower falls, nor the lake which lies between them, the whole appears one enormous cataract, the effect of which exceeds all description. Colonel W—— assured me that when the waters are at the highest he has seen the arch so enormous, that, to use his expression, a regiment of soldiers might have marched under it without a man being wetted; and, as he added, the noise would serve admirably for the thunder of the cannon.
One of the neighbouring glens was, according to the somewhat fabulous history of Ireland, the scene of a memorable battle between the great O’Sullivan and O’Donovan. The people show the remains of a very old arbutus, on which, as they relate, O’Donovan was hanged. It is very certain that money and jewels have recently been found buried deep in the earth in this enclosure.
The eagles of these mountains, who build on inaccessible rocks, play a very principal part in the popular stories. They are extremely large and strong, and it is certain that they sometimes carry off even children. Some time ago an eagle carried off a boy of three years old, and deposited him, probably because he was too heavy, nearly uninjured on a shelf of rock, to which the people below climbed and saved him. The new Ganymede, the ‘corpus delicti,’ is now living, and in full vigour. Another more tragical circumstance of the same kind occurred a few months ago. An eagle bore off a little girl before her father’s eyes, and disappeared with her among the rocks; nor could the least trace of the poor child ever be discovered.
October 3d.
Col. W—— is as great a ‘parkomane’ as I, but not quite such a ‘gourmet.’ Field-sports by land and water furnish his table with many delicacies. The grouse or moor-fowl are particularly good; and the oyster-bed on the edge of the park supplies oysters of a peculiar fine flavour, and as large as a plate. The bay swarms with fish and sea-dogs:—I saw one of the latter sitting on a projecting cliff just opposite my window, and listening with a delighted and almost dancing motion to the music of a bagpipe which resounded from a neighbouring public-house. These creatures are so passionately fond of music, that they follow the pleasure-boats, with bands of music on board, in herds of twenty or thirty. They are decoyed in this way by sportsmen. It is really barbarous thus to abuse their love of the arts!
Unfortunately it rained all day, so that I was obliged to remain in the house. In the morning I attended the daily worship of the family, the female members of which are somewhat bigoted as to form, though, as it seemed to me, sincerely pious. We all sat round in a circle, and the mother read one verse out of the Church of England Prayer-book, the eldest daughter the next, and so on, alternately, imitating the parson and clerk at a church. After this, the daughter, who has something reserved and enthusiastic about her, began a strange and very long prayer, which lasted a full quarter of an hour; during which all, (and of course I among the number,) turned decorously towards the wall, fell on their knees before their chair, and hid their faces in their hands. The mother sighedand groaned; the father seemed somewhat ‘ennuyé;’ the youngest daughter,—a charming girl, who is a good deal more mundane than her sister,—had now and then fits of absence; and the son had thought it expedient to absent himself altogether. I, who think every sincere feeling or virtuous aspiration, at whatever time of the day, a prayer to God, believed myself not impiously employed in observing a little what was going on.