The Sunny Side of Ireland Part 7

Killarney, or "the Church of the Sloetrees," lies on a flat plateau, within a mile from the sh.o.r.es of the far-famed Lough Lene, as the three lakes, popularly known as the Lakes of Killarney, are called in Irish.

The town possesses an Episcopal Palace, a cathedral and churches of interest, besides a monastery and School of Arts and Crafts. Otherwise it deserves little attention; but on fair days, when the peasantry from the neighbouring parishes crowd in, it presents a lively and varying aspect. If the town is insignificant, not so its surroundings, for nowhere else in the wide world is there such a combination of charms and variety of beauty, in mountain and lake scenery, thrown together.

"For how could river, lake, and sea In softer sister hues agree?

Or hills of pa.s.sionate purple glow Far and near more proudly flow?

And when will summer kiss awake Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake?

Or brighter berries blush between Foliage of a fresher green?"

There is a story of a tourist who, lingering long in the Holy Land, was pained at the irreverent hurry of an American, who arrived there one afternoon, scurried over the sacred places, and prepared to depart betimes on the morrow. He timidly inquired of the swift-foot why he, who had come so far, rushed away so quickly. "Sir," said the American, "I am timed to do Europe in a fortnight. I have thrown in the Holy Land, but if I stay here longer than one night I cannot see Killarney, which takes three days." He was a wise man in his generation. Although enterprising people have attempted to do the tour of the Lakes in a day, they have always gone away more than satisfied with what they saw, but with hearts hungry to return at a future date, and behold the beauties they had left unseen.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ On the Upper Lake, Killarney.]

The ~Lakes Of Killarney~ are three in number, connected by a swift-flowing stream, the Long Range, and emptying their waters through the river Laune into Castle Haven, on the Kerry coast. The entire journey can be performed by boat, but in the suggested tours given, both car, and boat, and ponies are pressed into our service.

The divisions of the Lough Lene are:--The Upper Lake (extreme length, two-and-a-half miles; extreme breadth, half-a-mile); the Torc, or Middle Lake (extreme length, two miles; extreme breadth, seven-eighths of a mile); and the Lower Lake (extreme length, five and one-eighth miles; extreme breadth, three miles). The first glimpse caught of the lakes, lying like broad mirrors beneath the high mountains, is a vision of fair delight. Like tall clansmen, Mangerton, Carnthoul, and the gathering Cruacha dhu M'Gillicuddy--the black reeks of the McGillicuddy--muster around, as it were, to re-tell us

"The tale of the spell-stricken band, All entranced, with their bridles and broad swords in hand, Who await but the word to give Erin her own"--

that old legend of the sleeping warriors garrisoned within the mountain's sides, which is met with in more than one Irish county. The Upper Lake is characterised by an untamed, peerless outline, and so near to the mountains does it lie, that the fissures in their rugged sides are almost countable, and the fingers of fancy almost touch the gorse on their slopes. Gliding over its waters, we readily see in them a land-locked sea. A ridge of the Glena mountains shuts it out from the north, the many-peaked reeks guard the pa.s.ses to the west, and to the south stands up Derrycunnihy--"The Oak Wood of the Rabbits"--between which and Torc is the fair bend of a Glen Coumagloun. Between the lips of the Lakes and the feet of the hills there appears no distance

"Save just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land."

m.u.f.fling the boatmen's oars for a moment, we can realise that indescribable solemnity with which silent nature hushes everything. Even the countless streams that have lost their way across the highlands, in their hurry to join the Lakes, seem to cease from babbling. But following the sinuous Long Range when we reach the still water beneath the Eagle's Nest, Nadanullar, is the psychological moment to awaken the echoes that eternally haunt the frowning eyry. A bugle-call sounded here is taken up by the barricades of rock, and is repeated even ten times over. Small wonder that the fairy hosts are credited with pa.s.sing it along their lines! The mountains take up their dying tones of sweet sounds, and answer it one to the other until the ear can no longer follow it through s.p.a.ce. The ferns and rich foliage of the mountain side trail their long fingers in the water, and cl.u.s.ter and quicken among the crevices of the rocks. Recently the Laureate visited Ireland for the first time; hitherto this land of poetry had been to him but "the d.a.m.nable country" of the politician. He came, he saw, but Killarney conquered; and he, like all others who have gazed upon its beauty, renders tribute where it rightly belongs. "d.a.m.nable" is not the adjective to apply to a heavenly land, of which he truly says:--

"Such varied and vigorous vegetation I have seen no otherwhere; and when one has said that, one has gone far towards awarding the prize for natural beauty. But vegetation, at once robust and graceful, is but the fringe and decoration of that enchanting district. The tender grace of wood and water is set in a frame-work of hills--now stern, now ineffably gentle, now dimpling with smiles; now frowning and rugged with impending storm; now m.u.f.fled and mysterious with mist, only to gaze out on you again with clear and candid sunshine. Here the trout leaps; there the eagle soars; and there beyond the wild deer dash through the arbutus coverts, through which they have come to the margin of the lake to drink, and, scared by your footstep or your oar, are away back to crosiered bracken or heather covered moorland. But the first, the final, the deepest and most enduring impression of Killarney is that of beauty unspeakably tender, which puts on at times a garb of grandeur and a look of awe, only in order to heighten by pa.s.sing contrast the sense of soft insinuating loveliness. How the missel thrushes sing, as well they may!

How the streams and runnels gurgle, and leap, and laugh! For the sound of journeying water is never out of your ears; the feeling of the moist, the fresh, the vernal, is never out of your heart. My companion agreed with me, that there is nothing in England or Scotland as beautiful as Killarney--meaning by Killarney its lakes, its streams, its hills, its vegetation; and if mountain, wood, and water--harmoniously blent--const.i.tute the most perfect and adequate loveliness that nature presents, it surely must be owned that it has all the world over no superior."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Shooting the Rapids.]

Leaving the ~Upper Lake~ behind, and bidding adieu to the green islands that stud its breast with arbutus and the cedars of Lebanon, the Old Weir Bridge meets the eye. 'Neath its arch the waters come down with foam and force, the oars are shipped, and we shoot straight through the eye of the rapid, thanks to the strong arm and sure nerve of the oarsmen. The beautiful reach here is the bosom "where the bright waters meet." Amid exquisite combination of colour, a Vallambrosa strewed with ferns, lichens, mosses, rich green hollies and arbutus with many coloured berries, we tread our way by a pa.s.sage of beauty round Dinis Island into the ~Middle~ or ~Torc Lake~, sheltered by the broad breast of the mountain from which it takes its name. Like "Muckross," the "Pleasant Point of Wild Swine," the name Torc is called after the wild boars, which in former years went "gerasening" over its slopes. Rising abruptly, the mountain stands clear between Mangerton and Glena, the lower sides well wooded. ~Innis Dinish~, the island at the "beginning of the waters," is the port for boats. The Cottage may be visited. The Whirlpool, between the waters of the lake and river, has been called O'Sullivan's Punch Bowl. Drohid-na-Brickeen, "The Bridge of Little Trout," or Brickeen Bridge, and Doolah, where the disused marble quarries and copper mines are still pointed out, are within a short distance. At the estuary of the Devil's Stream, which flows through the ravines on the mountain side, is the Devil's Island--almost inaccessible--on which a few stunted trees manage to secure a precarious existence. Within the little bay of Dundag is Goose Island. The rocks and caves along the lake sh.o.r.es are shrouded with traditions of O'Donoghue, Chieftain of the Glens. A long cave is called "The Wine Cellar"; at the end is "O'Donoghue's Arm Chair"; his Butler, a solitary crag, is called "Jackybwee." The most interesting of the fissures made by the waters in the rock side are what the enterprising boatmen have agreed to call "Colleen Bawn Rock." By the beautiful Glena Bay, we enter the Lower Lake, which is the largest and most charming of the group. It sleeps beneath the guardian heights of the Toomies Hills, and a vision of more loveliness is nowhere to be found. Low-lying sh.o.r.es, to the east and north, are jungled with the fronds of the hill ferns.

"Oh, the Fern! the fresh hill Fern!

That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne; That waves on the crags, like the plume of a King, And bends like a nun, over clear well and spring; The fairy's tall palm-tree, the heath birds fresh nest, And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best; With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Eagle's Nest Mountain, Killarney.]

The highest mountain in Ireland, ~Carrantual~,[4] at one side lifts its lofty brow, "crowned with tiaras fashioned in the sky." On its summit an outlaw, known in Munster as the "Shon" or Hawk, after many sleepless nights, footsore and weary, slept here with a prayer, "Thank G.o.d, at last I am above all my enemies." The peasantry p.r.o.nounce the name "Carntwohill," which translated means, the left-handed or inverted sickle. The expansiveness of the Lower Lake appears at first to minimise its beauty, when compared with its smaller companions. But the more its loveliness is explored, the greater the revelation of the harmony and luxuriance of the landscape. No less than thirty-five islands, like beauty spots of a fairy "drop scene," bedeck the silver sheen of its surface. The largest of these, ~Innisfallen~, almost midway between the eastern and western sh.o.r.es, is some thirty acres in extent, and is engirdled by leafy bowers of green trees. s.h.a.ggy sheep are couched in repose, or are busy with its verdant lawn. In the early morning, or tender gloaming which closes the Munster day, the holy place is

"Quiet as a nun, Breathless with adoration."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ The Turnpike Cap of Dunloe.]

Shafts of the dawning or waning sun, as the hour may be, illumine the fair pageant. The wavering outlines of the hills make the turret-tops to the dark green of the woods and the emerald of the meadows. The richest of colours from hill, tree, and rock acc.u.mulate on the surface of the Lake, burnished like silver. To-day the natural scenery is the same as of old, and few will wonder that here a saint found delights to prepare him in some degree for the pleasures stored in eternity. Of St.

Finian Labra we know little beyond that he was a native of Ely O'Carroll, then a part of Munster, and was a disciple of St. Brendan.

But his spirit loiters around Innisfallen, and the most casual of travellers will tread lightly on the ground hallowed by his footsteps.

The monastic remains are many, but by the enthusiastic antiquary alone can their fragments and chief features be traced. "_The Annals of Innisfallen_," which form one of the chief sources of Irish history, were written here 600 years ago. Leaving the "Holy Island," we cross the lake and land at the foot of the Toomies Mountains, famous in pre-historic myths, to visit the O'Sullivan Cascade. The legend, which is too often wasted on sceptical ears, tells that O'Sullivan, a captain of his people, renowned amongst them for fleetness of foot and prowess as a hunter, on one occasion went to hunt the red deer. The faint yellow rays of morning were lighting up the eastern sky as he went forth. Gaily the deep-mouthed dogs obeyed, sniffing the fresh breeze across the mountain purpled with heather. Scarce had he left home when a magnificent stag bounded across his path. Swift as the lightning flash the dogs sprung upon the track--away across the moors and down the glens, on the scent they went. Throughout that livelong day O'Sullivan followed the chase, weary, tired, and thirsty, but still determined to make the prize his own. At length night, and darkness with it, came; the stag could be seen no more, the dogs, too, were at fault, and the scent was lost. Disappointed, and spent with the labour of the chase, the huntsman blew a shrill blast on his horn to call the dogs to him, and faced for home across the hills. But there was a voice that, loud and clear, called upon him--"O'Sullivan, O'Sullivan, turn back!" Brave and fearless, like his race, he turned round, to behold before him the centre of so many cycles of romance--Finn MacCool. "Why do you dare chase my stag?" asked Finn. "Because it was the finest that man ever saw," answered O'Sullivan. The answer pleased Finn MacCool.

"O'Sullivan," said he, "you are a valiant man, and have been wasted in the long chase. You thirst, and I will give you to drink." So saying, he stamped his huge heel upon the hard rock, and forth burst the waters, seething and dashing as they do to this day. O'Sullivan quenched his thirst and sped on his way.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Meeting of the Waters, Killarney.]

From the innermost recess of the glen the water flows down, in one of the most fascinating spots to be found within all the delicious realm of Kerry. The ivy hangs in dense draperies from the rocks, a sweet disorder of arbutus, evergreens, and all the flowers that grow in a radiant land, daringly lean across the canyon, and vainly try to trip the rushing stream, which, in cascade after cascade, flings itself with pa.s.sionate energy, and a ceaseless murmur, over the rocks. The placidness of the huge lake is in strange contrast to the noisy stream which so excitedly hastens to meet it, and, as if awed by its dignity, as it comes nearer and nearer the mountain stream, sinks its voice, until in a subdued sigh it falls into the breast of the lake. Underneath the projecting rock, and overhung with luxuriant herbs, O'Sullivan's Grotto offers a quiet retreat. Following the wooded sh.o.r.es of Glena Bay, we pa.s.s Stags, Burnt, and other islands, and come to Glena Cottage, hiding in the foliage of leafy trees. Glena means "the valley of good fortune," and a name more suggestive of happier thoughts than weird Glownamorra across the lake--"the glen of the dead."

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Muckross Abbey, Killarney.]

A mile's drive through the pleasant demesne lands of Muckross brings us to the water's edge at Castlelough Bay, in the middle lake, on a promontry of which the ruins of ~Muckross Abbey~ are to be seen. Here, in the fifteenth century, Donald M'Carthy founded an Abbey for Franciscan friars. The quiet cloisters in the northwest transept, with their varying pointed and rounded arches, are unique. The recessed doorway by which we enter is very beautiful. The towers and east window are in fair preservation. The monuments within the ruined pile tell us that it

"contains In death's embrace M'Carthy More's remains,"

and also reminds us that

"If Erin's chiefs deserve a generous tear, Heir of their worth, O'Donoghue lies here."

In the centre of the cloisters there grows a great yew tree, spreading its many branches and shade over them, and above the side walls, forming a dark cowl, which overshadows the old house of the monks. In ancient Erin the yew tree was regarded as sacred, and in its shade the Druids performed their mystic rites. With the early Christians, as an evergreen, it was a symbol of Life Eternal.

The peasants still inherit some of the awe with which the sacred tree was held in former days, and they are loth to hurt it with the loss of a single leaf. All impressive is the desolate majesty of Muckross, whatever time it is visited!

"But the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins grey."

At night, when the pale ghost of the moon looks across the lake, when the mountains are shrouded in shadows, when the waters are lulling the slumbering land,

"And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave,"

the solemnity of the scene surpa.s.ses even that of fair Melrose, by the distant Tweed, of which Sir Walter Scott tells.

Driving past the modern mansion in the demesne, along ~Torc Lake~, by the groves of Dinis, and through the arches of the Old Weir Bridge, the river glistens and sparkles in the sun, while the distant calmer water lies deep in sleepy shadows. Beyond the peculiar rock known as the White Deer we pa.s.s through the Tunnel cut under the huge slope of the mountains. Here is a point of view which fascinates all visitors, and from which an ample picture of the surroundings may be secured. A mile further we cross the Galway river, rushing down a well-worn channel through Cournaglown, the valley sides of which are covered with oak trees. Already the ceaseless chorus of Derrycunnihy Cascade fills our ears. With tumult and cries of havoc, the water springs from an alt.i.tude on the mountain side, dividing its force into many minor cataracts, as it forces the pa.s.sage barricaded by rocks and boulders, to unite them again in a deep pool, and after a second's rest, it musters its full strength, and falls in a torrent towards the Middle Lake. Colman's Leap, across the stream beneath the Eagle's Nest, is shown here, and of it a legend similar to others in many parts of Ireland is told. A mile eastward, along the Kenmare road, we come to ~Torc Waterfall~, lovely as a capricious _colleen_, whose modes are all the more "deludering" for their uncertainty--Torc, whether tripping gently or rushing angrily, "to one thing constant never," makes its bed in a fairy realm, a leafy garden of ever-changing beauty. Larch and alder, arbutus, oak, and hazel thickly curtain the Fall from the pa.s.sing glance. But a sylvan path o'erstrewn with leaves, and bordered with many fronded ferns, discovers the fountain in full bearing. White with foam, and angry for its long delay in the grip of Mangerton, and the hollow of the Devil's Punch Bowl, the flood breaks through the wall of rocks seventy feet high, and spits a shower of spray on every futile thing which attempts to stem its course or stay its purpose. The panorama spread out beneath the rocks of Torc comprehends, in all their glory of colour and contrast, the Middle and Lower Lakes beneath the mountains.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Torc Waterfall, Killarney.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Photo, Lawrence, Dublin._ Ross Castle, Killarney.]

Two and a-half miles northwards by the King's Bridge, or about one mile direct from Killarney, within sight of the ~Lower Lake~ and the Purple Mountains, are the ruins of Aghadoe, the "Church of the two Yew Trees,"

founded under the blessing of Saint Finian. The remains of the Round Tower and Abbot's Castle can still be seen, but these and the eighth century doorway of the old church are all that have weathered the wind of centuries. The summit of the old tower is a vantage point for a vista. Dr. Todhunter has written a beautiful ballad, in imitation of the pa.s.sionate Irish laments, for an outlaw who was buried there.

AGHADOE.

There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my love and I, love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid him from the eyes of the redcoats and their spies That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

Oh! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son, in Aghadoe!

When your throat fries in h.e.l.l's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe; O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, There he lay, the head--my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest-- Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

Oh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!

Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.