Hence onward to the Tore Cascade, descending its silver staircase amid green trees and graceful ferns,—the latter including, as we were told, the rare Trichomanes speciosum. Here there is a lovely landscape of the Middle and Lower Lakes, and there were seats wherefrom to enjoy it, until those despicable snobs, who had mutilated the trees in Rohnaines Island, threw them (sweet gentlemen!) down the waterfall. And it's O for a tête-à-tête with the principal performer, in the unbroken seclusion of a twenty-four foot ring!
But we must think more wisely, as we approach the solemn ruins of Mucross, than of punching our fellow-creatures' heads, though even here upon the very tombs, the miscreants have been at work,—disporting themselves, like filthy ghouls and vampires—and scrabbling upon the stones, as madmen will.
So much remains, both of Church and Abbye, that imagination readily supplies what is gone. Here in the Choir, where that ill-tempered looking tourist is reprimanding his wife for giving a beggar twopence, the brothers of St. Francis of Assisi were wont to sing holy psalms; and there in the Cloisters, where those two gaily-dressed French girls are admiring the gigantic yew-tree, and wondering what has become of “ce cher Jules,” (whom I apprehend to be a lover, but who comes round the corner, a poodle, dreadful to contemplate!) there
“Ever-musing melancholy dwelt,”
and there paced the pale Franciscan, in the sombre habit of his order, and girded with his hempencord.
Laugh on, sweet Stephanie, joyous Josephine (I heard their names from Mamma in search); but be not cruel with your charms, for Love, unloved, can still change men to monks,—forlorn and wretched, though in crowded streets, as he, of whom Percy sang:
“Within these holy cloysters long
He languisht, and he dyed
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'playning of her pride.”
There are some beautiful ferns among and about these ruins, but being a very poor Polypodian, or Scolopendrian (or whatever may be the scientific title of a Fernist), I only recognised the Hart's-tongue,—with its fructification arranged like a miniature plan of ships in order of battle,—and of this I gathered some very fine fronds, and put them in my hat, as will appear hereafter.
Passing through Mr. Herberts beautiful demesne, by his pleasant home (note the St. John's-wort by the wayside), his offices, and yards, wherein the newest agricultural implements cause one to sigh more than ever for landlords, resident and liberal as he,—by the copper-mine, rich and productive until the envious waters interfered, we reach the Middle Lake, and our boat, waiting for us, thereupon.
Tourists, who have written about the Irish Lakes have made but little mention of this Middle, Mucross, or Tore Lake. Like the youngest of three fair sisters, she is kept in the background by their proximity and prior claims, being, moreover, an unobtrusive, gentle beauty, of a subdued and retiring air, not demanding the admiration she deserves. But were there such a scene of tranquil loveliness six miles from any of our great manufacturing towns, it would be a refreshment, and a blessing evermore, to thousands of our weary artisans, just as “the Pool,” by Sutton Coldfield, (one of the prettiest spots in England) is the holiday resort and resting-place of the working men of Birmingham.