And as at this era, just as in the two preceding it, there are special words which bring joy and animation to man (let me briefly instance gone-away, mark-woodcock, sillery, deux-temps), so there are terms of terror (e.g. jilt, tailor, Little-Go, lurit-server, poacher, vulpicide), of potent and cruel import.
I might amplify for my readers this etymological treat. I might expatiate on the different effects produced by. the same word upon different minds, videlicet, by the word Tally-ho, as heard at the covert-side by sportsman or by muff, by the man who rides with hounds, or the skirting path-finder who rides without them; but I have already travelled by a too circuitous route to my conclusion,—that it is sweet to hear the mere names of those things, which are pleasant and lovable in themselves, and that to those who have seen the Irish lakes, the word Killarney is “a joy for ever.”
Coming so immediately from the wild grandeur of Connamara to these scenes of tranquil beauty, I think that our first view of the Lakes, as we left the Victoria Hotel, was rather a disappointment. The landscape (or waterscape?) was so calm and still, that it had somewhat of a dioramic effect, and one almost expected to see it move slowly onwards to an accompaniment of organ music. But as the olive lends a zest to generous wine, even so this tiny discontentment served but to enhance our subsequent and full fruition. For, once upon the waters, you become forthwith convinced, not only how impossible it is to exaggerate the beauties of Killarney (as well might a painter essay to flatter or improve a sunset), but for pen or pencil to do them justice.
There is such infinite variety, from the white and golden lilies, (which, close to land, look like miniature canoes, from which fairy watermen have just sprung lightly ashore), to the towering heights and aeries; such diversity of tint and outline in the mountains, tree-clothed from crown to base; in those “islets so freshly fair;” and in those dancing waters, which raise their smiling waves to kiss the flowers and ferns; such contrasts, and yet such a perfect whole, of wood and water, “harmoniously confused;” such transformations, wrought by cloud and breeze, yet always such complete repose; that the eye can never weary.
We hired a boat, and set forth for Innisfallen, just at that delightful time between sunset and moonrise,
“When in the crimson cloud of even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper, on the front of Heaven,
His glittering gem displays.”
Presently, the moon came up above those lofty hills, 1 and as bugle music from the returning boats was wafted over the shining waters, and lost itself among the mountains, we turned to each other, Frank and I, at the same moment, with those thrilling lines,
“O hark! O hear! how thin and clear;
And thinner, clearer, farther going.
O, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying.
Blow, bugle; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying!”
1 In a Trip to Ireland, by a Cambridge M. A. (1858), there
is written, gravely written, at page 18, the following most
original simile: “Just over yon steep acclivity hangs a
crescent moon, like a silver knocker on the star-studded
gate of heaven, and one can almost fancy some angel-warder
will, ere long, break the silence with the gracious
invitation, 'Come up hither.'”
Indeed, you would suppose that Tennyson must have written this heart-stirring song at Killarney, did not the engraving prefixed to it, represent so different and dismally inferior a scene. To look and listen, as we rowed slowly onwards, seemed to be more happiness than we, undeserving, could at once enjoy; and it required a contemplation of meaner things, to convince us that the whole scene was not, in the words of Ireland's poet, writing at Killarney, and of it,—
“One of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a light summer-haze, o'er the poet's warm thought.”