KILLARNEY, IRELAND: by F. J. Dick, M. Inst. C. E., M. Inst. C. E. I.
THOSE who pass hurriedly through the Killarney district know little of its manifold fascination. Even among natives few have thoroughly explored its features. But to one who has made many more or less prolonged visits there, at all seasons, and who has gained a sympathetic interest in its people and in the legends that belong to every rock, islet, and mountain, and who has seen it in storm and sunshine, at dawn and sunset, and by moonlight, the feeling grows that here the immutable decree of Karmic law, "there shall be no more going up and down," during this cycle, never fully descended—that, in fact, this is no part of the ordinary world at all, but something distinct, sacred, set apart for some inscrutable reason and purpose. The very atmosphere of some fairy-world of Light and Day hovers about these Lakes and wooded mountain heights, and seems to penetrate everything. Right in the center, in the very heart of all the beauty, between Dinish Island and Glena, rises the Shee, or Sidhe (Sanskrit Siddhi) Mountain—the mountain of the Fairy World, next to Purple Mountain.
Strange to say, it is just here, too, that the luxuriant vegetation of Killarney seems fairly to run riot, and we find trees and shrubs of tropical character growing side by side with those of temperate and colder climes. Eucalyptus, palm, bamboo, jostle cedar and pine; while the profusion of flowers of all kinds is amazing. And the delicious perfumes of the place, with just a faint suggestion of a turf-fire somewhere a little way off, are something to remember. Some of the Killarney plants belong to what was once an unbroken coast-line extending to Spain. Such are saxifraga umbrosa (London pride), saxifraga geum, arbutus unedo, and pinguicula grandiflora. The arbutus grows in profusion at Killarney, although its real home, in a sense, is among the Pyrenees. Other plants are found along the west coast, which are indigenous to the eastern shores of America.
One thinks of Breasil, and the Isles of the Western Sea, a later geological period than that when there was unbroken, or practically unbroken, connexion between Ireland, Spain, and America. And then one begins to wonder when the links of the past will be more clear.
Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept.
THE OLD WEIR BRIDGE, KILLARNEY
Lomaland Photo. and Engraving Dept.
THE GAP OF DUNLOE, KILLARNEY
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COLLEEN BAWN ROCK, KILLARNEY
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AN OLD IRISH FARMYARD
These memories of the past! Are they not pressing more strongly than ever on the hearts and imaginations—on the soul—of the Irish? No attempted deadening of this urge by half-hearted dry-as-dust methods ingeniously forced on the poor folk by interested parties (vested interests) will avail much. The unrest, which manifests in so many ways in contemporary Irish life, has surely a deep source. There are incarnations and incarnations. Some kinds are racial, that is, belong to the larger sweep of things. No artificial barriers can stop them. No pretended patronage of the Irish language movement will be able to check influences belonging to the inner life of a race-soul under recurrent upward impulse.
Hy-breasil and the Isles of the West! Once the Coom-Dhuv, or Black Valley, to the west of the Killarney Upper Lake, was an arm of the sea; and those who lived on the temple-crowned heights of Killarney could have told us something of those Isles, which were in no shadow-world, but were realities, relics of Atlantis, undoubtedly. These legends must find their solution, partly by the names, partly by the details; and be studied in the light of H. P. Blavatsky's writings, particularly The Secret Doctrine, where many a clue is given; and where the Sanskrit, Chaldaean, and Irish names fail to give the clues, it seems the Welsh will come triumphantly to the rescue. After all, the details have only relative importance, for the broad facts are already plainly outlined in The Secret Doctrine; and it is no very difficult matter to see what is meant by Partholon, with the cow-faced and the goat-headed; by Nemed; by the Tuatha de Danaan (Fourth Race Atlanteans of the Right Path), and Formorians (those of the Left); some of their descendants living on in archaic Ireland; and the Milesians, the early arrivals of the Fifth, from Central Asia via Egypt and Scandinavia, when Spain and Africa were one and Ireland was part of Scandinavia. All of which was long before what we call the Celts, crossed the Caucasus into Europe. Irish mythology is real history, some of it disfigured, as usual, by irreverent or ignorant hands. The worst of it is that the Irish seemed to enjoy having their past belittled, and their gods and heroes dethroned in favor of a piece of patchwork of alien growth; a kind of travesty of Eastern and Egyptian teachings, belittled, like the Irish gods; and dethroned, truly! It was a "magical and Druidic mist" of the wrong kind unfortunately, which descended upon the heirs of Atlantean knowledge. And it will take some effort to dispel it, very probably. It is dispelled though!
Thoughts like these are apt to cross one's mind among the regal solitudes of Killarney, where for miles, as you look down from some crag, no human habitation can be seen—one of the places where you can sit, and watch the Sword of Light, and the Spear of Victory getting busy; so that the other two Jewels brought from the Isles of the West will shine again.
One visible sign, at least, of the Sword of Light, is a growing temperance movement among the youth of Ireland. Right conduct leads to light, whatever be the mists obscuring one's vision along the road of life. Perhaps the youth of Ireland will next look into the ancient past to discern vestiges of nobility as well as simplicity of character; and note what manner of men some true kings were, and by whom attended—bards, or poet-seers; lawgivers, or disciplinarians; craftsmen; and warriors. Another kind of functionary was—well, he was not needed.
One of the legends of Killarney, really connected, it would seem, with Inisfallen, has no very exact parallel, and possesses some interesting and suggestive features. The story as given by Mr. Ockenden a century and a half ago is somewhat as follows. There lived in Inisfallen many hundred years ago a prince named O'Donoghoe. He manifested during his stay on earth great munificence, great humanity, and great wisdom; for by his profound knowledge in all the secret powers of nature, he wrought wonders as miraculous as any tradition has recorded, of saints by the aid of angels, or of sorcerers by the assistance of demons; and among many other astonishing performances, he rendered his person immortal. After having continued a long time on the surface of the globe without growing old he one day took leave of his friends, and rising from the floor, like some aerial existence, passed through the window, shot away horizontally to a considerable distance, and then descended. The water, unfolding at his approach, gave him entrance to the sub-aqueous regions and then, to the astonishment of all beholders, closed over his head, as they believed, for ever; but in this they were mistaken.
He returned again, some years after, revisiting—not, like Hamlet's ghost "the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous," but—the radiance of the sun, making day joyful, to those at least who saw him; since which time he has continued to make very frequent expeditions to these upper regions, sometimes three or four in a year; but sometimes three or four years pass without his once appearing, which the bordering inhabitants have always looked upon as a mark of very bad times. Mr. Ockenden continues the tale of his experiences:
It was feared this would be the third year he would suffer to elapse, without his once cheering their eyes with his presence; but the latter end of last August he again appeared, to the inexpressible joy of all, and was seen by numbers in the middle of the day. I had the curiosity, before I left Killarney, to visit one of the witnesses to this very marvelous fact.
The account she gives is, that, returning with a kinswoman to her house at the head of the Lake, they both beheld a fine gentleman mounted upon a black horse, ascend through the water along with a numerous retinue on foot, who all moved together along the surface towards a small island, near which they again descended under water. This account is confirmed in time, place, and circumstance, by many more spectators from the side of the Lake, who are all ready to swear, and, not improbably, to suffer death in support of their testimony.
Another account says that at the feast, before he first disappeared, he was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in the ages to come; and that after he reached the center of the Lake opposite them, he paused a moment, turned slowly round, looked toward his friends, and waving his hand to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, descended.
Mrs. S. C. Hall relates that an English soldier of the 30th Regiment, and an Irish comrade, were while she was at Killarney engaged in plowing up part of the old churchyard in Inisfallen, a work they both disliked. As they were mooring the boat in which they came to the island in the morning, a day or so after the work had commenced,
they saw a procession of about two hundred persons pass from the old churchyard, and walk slowly and solemnly over the lake to the mainland. Reynolds (the soldier) himself was terribly alarmed, but his companion fainted in the boat.
He repeatedly afterward saw smaller groups of figures, but no crowd so numerous.
In answer to our questions, he expressed his perfect readiness to depose to the fact on oath; and asserted he would declare it if on his death-bed.
Some say the best way to approach Killarney for the first time is by the wildly picturesque road over the mountains from Kenmare and Glengarriff. One obtains a magnificent view of the Upper Lake from the turn of the road a little north of the police barrack. Others again have experienced the charm of an absolutely sudden surprise awaiting them, when, arriving at Killarney by rail and driving south about a mile or more, during which nothing is seen but the over-arching trees, and turning to the left up a steep road south of the Flesk demesne, toward one of the guest-houses there, the whole panorama of the Lower Lake and the mountains bursts upon you just as you reach your destination. Nothing has prepared you for a scene of so great beauty; so this way of arriving has its merits. From this situation, or from Flesk Castle; from a point above the Torc cascade; and from the point first mentioned, are obtained perhaps the three finest views of the Lakes. But in truth unrivaled view-points seem endless, each having its own especial charm. The play of color, cloud, and shadow at various hours and seasons is so extraordinary that no brush of painter could ever do Killarney justice. As for photographs, they are merely like pegs to hang one's memory-hats upon.
To know Killarney stay two months there at least, make friends with the natives, learn the legends, and absorb the harmony of the region.
And though many an isle be fair,
Fairer still is Inisfallen,
Since the hour Cuchullain lay
In the bower enchanted.
See! the ash that waves today,
Fand its grandsire planted.
When from wave to mountain-top
All delight thy sense bewilders,
Thou shalt own the wonder wrought
Once by her skilled fingers
Still, though many an age be gone,
Round Killarney lingers.
William Larminie